Everything I've ever done
by duj
Summary: COMPLETE! There were likely to be enough cross words when they finally met. For seven years of his teaching, Hermione had had nothing but cross words from him... Life was a puzzle sometimes. SSHG, Nominated for 4th Multifaceteds and Moste Potente Passions
1. A Misguided Attempt

EVERYTHING I'VE EVER DONE

**Disclaimer: This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling who created and, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and settings elaborated herein.**

**A/N: Spoilers, knowledge to OotP assumed.**

Hermione hesitated outside the office, her hand poised to knock. Why was she doing this? After today, she'd be gone and never have to see him again. Who cared what he thought of her?

She did. For seven years she'd done everything she could think of to gain his respect without ever receiving so much as one "Well done" on a perfect essay, one look of approval for a faultless potion. She'd wanted, she'd needed that validation, the final proof that she belonged in this world as much as any Pure Blood.

Only recently, while reminiscing with Harry and Ron, had it occurred to her that she might have given him reason for his steely dislike. So here she was, one last throw of the dice, one last attempt to break through to him.

Two firm knocks brought a curt response.

"Enter."

He was bent over his desk, writing reports. He glanced up, his eyes narrowing at sight of her.

"Professor Snape," she cut in before he could send her away, "May I talk to you sir?"

He frowned.

"Can't it wait?"

"But Professor!" she begged. "The coaches are leaving in an hour."

"Whatever you wish to say has waited this long. As far as I'm concerned, it may wait forever."

"Please Professor, I – I want to apologise."

He had already turned back to the parchment in front of him, but at that he shot her a considering look. Then he put down his quill, pushed the parchments aside and straightened himself in his chair, watching her the way an anteater watches an ant's nest.

"Very well. Sit. Enumerate."

She obeyed the first command immediately, the second with much hesitation.

"In first year, at the Quidditch match," she muttered, "When you were counter-spelling Professor Quirrell's hex – I saw your lips moving and – and you never took your eyes off him and – Well, I thought it was you controlling the broom, I'm sorry sir. It was me who set you on fire."

His expression didn't change. There wasn't even a flash of the eyes.

"You ruined my outer robe," he remarked. "It cost 15 Galleons to replace."

"I'm really sorry," she assured him. "Didn't it hurt you, sir?"

"I suffered no permanent damage."

She gulped. This wasn't going over well, but she'd have to continue now till the end.

"In second year, I took some supplies from your office."

Her hands clasped and unclasped, twisted and squeezed. He nodded, the only sign that he was listening.

"Yes, 3 ounces of boomslang skin, 4 ¼ of bicorn horns. At current prices, the replacement cost is 69 Galleons and 5 Sickles."

Eyes widening in alarm, she squeaked, "I had no idea they were so expensive!"

He raised his eyebrows.

"Stealing is stealing, Miss Granger, whether you take 69 Galleons or 69 Knuts."

She flushed and bit her lip.

"Yes, sir. I'll write you a draft on Gringotts immediately." That would almost clean out her account and how would she explain to her parents? She'd have to take that holiday job after all instead of spending the wait for her results exploring the British Library.

"Do I add the Gillyweed from fourth year to your tally or was that some other criminal?" he sneered.

"Criminal?" she shrilled indignantly when she got her breath back.

His coal-black eyes flickered slowly over her, from her restless hands to her bitten lip, without ever reaching her eyes.

"You have already admitted to an unprovoked assault and to thieving. I believe the word is justified."

"But I'm going to pay you back now! And, no, I didn't take any Gillyweed!" She fumbled in her pocket and found a small roll of parchment and an Inkless Quill. With shaking hands she wrote him a draft for 84 Galleons and 5 Sickles, signed it and thumped it down on the desk in front of him. He made no move to take it or even to look at it.

"Are you expecting me to be grateful that you're finally planning to make restitution five and a half years later? I will take no punitive action against you. I won't even charge you for the inconvenience and labour of replacing the ingredients at what was an exceedingly awkward time," he told her with bitter emphasis. With an unknown killer loose in the school, he had grudged every second away from his responsibilities of patrolling the corridors and protecting the students. "And that is a much more lenient response than you deserve."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," she muttered in a chastened tone.

"Will that be all?"

His hand was already reaching out for his quill, but he let it fall at her headshake.

"You can't have forgotten that in third year I – I hexed you in the Shrieking Shack. You were knocked out."

His thin lips tightened and his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.

"You were under a Confundus Spell, I believe."

How she wanted to agree! But that would have been a lie.

"N-no. No, I wasn't."

His voice deepened even further.

"Indeed. So your decision to turn a spell I'd taught you against myself, your protector, rather than against the escaped convict holding you prisoner and his werewolf accomplice, was a product of your rational mind, was it?"

The bite in his voice had her rearing up in self-defense, her bushy hair flying.

"I said I was sorry!" She'd bet he didn't get apologies very often. He should appreciate the few he received.

He raised an eyebrow.

"As a matter of fact you didn't, but let us take it as said."

"I apologise for everything I've ever done against you," she flung at him.

"I accept your apology, limited as it is, and wish you Good Day."

Quill once more in hand, he bent back to his reports, dismissing her. She wasn't finished yet.

"Limited?" she repeated disbelievingly. "I said everything!"

Long fingers tapped the quill's point on the desk.

"I've always deplored your misguided attempt at cramming your head so full of information as to leave no room for reflection, Miss Granger."

Reflection, thinking – Oh.

"You want me to apologise for what I thought, for suspecting you unjustly? And for anything I might have said too?"

"I've never desired anything from you but your absence!" he snapped. "Whether or not you apologise is a matter of complete indifference to me."

Fists clenched, she glared at him, determined to leave no word unsaid.

"I'm apologising anyway. I'm sorry for everything I've ever thought or said or done against you. I'm sorry for any inconvenience or damage I may have caused you. Is that everything now?"

"Should it be?" he sneered.

Her scowl melted into uncertainty. Jeez, what did it take? A grovel on bended knee?

"I don't understand you."

"Ah, you've finally realised that after seven years. What a day of discoveries."

He was always wrong-footing her. She wanted to wipe that sour smirk off his disagreeable face, but she didn't know how. She found herself voicing the accusation in her heart that she'd never intended to raise with him.

"You've always disliked me."

He leaned back in his chair, fiddling with his quill.

"I don't make a practice of disliking any of my students, if by that you mean that I wish them ill. Nor do I like any of them, at any rate not in the sense of wishing for their company. If you have no more to say I suggest you leave."

He hadn't asked for her company, his eyes said. She lifted her chin.

"I will leave after you explain what else I should be apologising for."

"Are you trying to frighten me into submission, Miss Granger? The prospect of your continued company, however unwelcome, is hardly likely to break my spirit," he mocked.

She turned the full force of her reproachful brown eyes on him. He met her gaze without moving a muscle.

"Please, I'm trying to make amends," she pleaded.

Dark eyes skewered her with sudden intensity.

"Am I the only recipient of your apologies? Have you requested an interview with Draco Malfoy or with Crabbe and Goyle? I believe you hexed them more than once."

"But they're Death Eaters!"

"They weren't when you hexed them. Indeed, who knows how differently they may have turned out had you all treated them otherwise? Regardless, what of Filch? Have you apologised to him?"

"I hadn't thought about it. I did far worse to you than I ever did to him." Surely the most she could ever have caused the Squib caretaker was minor annoyance.

"But that's not the reason, is it? I'm a hero in this war, so I merit an apology. He isn't, so he doesn't." His voice sharpened as her eyes fell. "Perhaps you should ask yourself why you thought it didn't matter how you treated people who were ugly or unpleasant. Why it is only the good or the Gryffindor you deem worthy of your consideration."

As his meaning penetrated, her jaw dropped.

"That's what this is all about? You're saying I'm prejudiced?" she exclaimed.

"Do you deny it?"

Hands moving to hips, she leaned forward and spat, "You're hardly the one to complain about prejudice! The way you've treated us all these years, just for being Gryffindor!"

"It's my job to mould you into responsible and productive adults and to keep you safe in the process," he told her. "Everything I've ever done or said to you has been intended for your benefit."

"What about what you've done and said to Neville and Harry?" she snorted.

"Miss Granger, I will indulge your curiosity regarding my treatment of you, but I concede no right on your part to inquire into my treatment of any other student. If they have questions, let them raise them themselves."

His bored voice inflamed her further.

"You honestly believe you've never done anything to apologise for?" Her voice went high and squeaky. "What about the time you humiliated me in front of everyone when you said there was no difference between my normal teeth and the beaver teeth Malfoy hexed me with?"

One long, pale finger rubbed the large, hooked nose as his other hand continued toying with the quill.

"Was that comment so much worse than anything else I've ever said that you single it out?" he asked, just as she'd decided he wasn't going to bother to respond. "I sent Goyle to the hospital wing and I saw no difference in the appropriate course of action for yourself. Two disfiguring but minor hexes, what difference should I have seen?"

"That wasn't what you meant. You meant that my normal teeth were just as ugly."

"Of course, you must have a better understanding of what I meant than I did. I beg your pardon."

The words were apologetic. The tone most emphatically was not. Her eyes prickled with angry tears, but she blinked them away. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of making her cry again. Nevertheless, her voice wobbled as she spoke.

"You hurt my feelings. You made everyone laugh at me."

There was another long silence as he frowned down at her clenched hands.

"In your study of Herbology, you must have noticed that some plants require vigorous pruning to encourage their growth. It's the same with students."

She jumped up and bent forward over the desk, searching his face for any sign of regret. There was none.

"You're wrong! You know you were wrong!" She turned and marched out of the room, pausing at the door for an unfond farewell. "I hope I never see you again!"

"The feeling is entirely mutual. Do close the door quietly as you leave."

She closed it with exaggerated care. He stared after her for some minutes.

He remembered that incident all too well. It was the only rebuke he'd given her that had been prompted not by her own needy, greedy behaviour but by his own temper and habit of squelching her. He'd spoken to wound and had evidently succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.

Perhaps he should have apologised. She was one of the most irritating students he'd ever taught – if taught was the right word. He couldn't flatter himself he'd ever given her much potions knowledge, she'd taught herself too effectively before even entering his classroom. Nevertheless, she had at least the grace to appreciate his efforts.

Yes, probably he should have capped her apologies with one of his own, but she had demanded both his forgiveness and his contrition with such an air of entitlement he'd been too irked to oblige. Why did she always affect him like that?

He sighed and reached for the reports she had interrupted.

"Goodbye, Miss Granger," he muttered. "Good luck."

**TBC?**

**A/N This story was written before HBP so it is only canon-compatible to OotP. The quoted price for the stolen ingredients and damaged robe is not canon.**


	2. A Mutual Desire

A MUTUAL DESIRE

**Disclaimer: This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling who created and, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and settings elaborated herein.**

**A/N: Spoilers, knowledge assumed. ****Thanks to all my reviewers**

**(Tabari Avaren: I don't think it's whiny for Hermione's eyes to prickle with tears that she doesn't actually cry. It isn't about a silly incident three years earlier; for her this symbolised finding a place in the Wizarding world and reversing the way pureblood wizards have made her unwelcome.)**

Hermione scowled as the tall, black-clad figure stalked through the door. She'd known, of course, when she took the job at Slug and Jiggers Apothecary, that there was a good chance of seeing him sooner or later. Yet she'd hoped, since she was there only two days a week, that he'd come on one of the other days.

No such luck. Here was Professor Sarcastic Snape walking in like he owned the place, six weeks after they'd professed a mutual desire of never seeing each other again. She dropped her eyes and busied herself with the fuzzy-haired witch who wanted to pick through the beetle eyes to find the best ones.

"I assure you, madam," she repeated, "all our beetle eyes are of the finest quality and all are equivalent to each other. Only five Knuts a scoop and I guarantee you won't find any damaged ones."

Across the room, a pale face curtained by greasy hair turned from contemplation of finest Canadian Tamarac bark to glance in her direction. Sharp, black eyes held hers for a moment, then he jerked the tiniest nod and shifted to inspect the long-stemmed adder's fern and turpeth.

It was his fault she was here, well, partly his fault. No, not really. She was the one who'd stolen from his private stores with Harry's assistance in second year. She was the one who'd chosen to confess and beg forgiveness. To pay back the value of her theft was only fair. Inconvenient, but fair.

Against her will, her eyes returned to him. He'd known. He'd known it was her (well, her and Harry), he'd known exactly how much she'd taken, he'd even calculated the cost and been ready with a restitution claim. He'd known it all and yet for five and a half years he'd said nothing on the subject. Amidst the sneers and insults he scattered around the classroom, he'd never mentioned it to her knowledge. She was unhesitatingly sure that if she hadn't confronted him he'd have gone on saying nothing forever.

Not that he would have forgotten. He never forgot a wrong done to him. It would have lain between them for the rest of their lives as an unpaid debt he chose not to claim. She wondered uneasily, for one moment, if he would have reminded her at some future time, demanding payment in service rather than money, secure in the knowledge that her Gryffindor mentality would enforce compliance.

The witch had requested two scoops of beetle eyes and was now looking over the dried angleworms, poking at them with a wrinkled bony finger. Hermione hastened to remove the jar.

"Please don't touch."

The witch bought three Knuts worth then very grudgingly pulled out sixteen silver Sickles for an ounce of dragon liver, watching with quick, suspicious eyes as Hermione weighed it on the silver balance-scales.

Professor Snape had moved on to toadstools and agarics. His eyes roamed over smoothcaps, deathcaps and inky caps to rest at last on the stinkhorn. After that one glance, he hadn't looked her way again, yet she couldn't escape that feeling of being under observation.

It's just a throwback to Potions classes, she told herself. I'm so used to him watching me, I must be just imagining things. He'd stalked around the classroom in mostly silent inspection, with a curl of the mouth or a lowering of the brows as he loomed up behind them. Occasionally, he'd rebuked their carelessness and incompetence with short stabbing sentences; more rarely, he'd offered words of cold praise – but only to Slytherins of course. Other Gryffindors simply breathed a sigh of relief if he found nothing to criticise.

She hadn't been satisfied by his silence. She'd wanted him to acknowledge her careful preparation, her immaculate technique. Even a single nod of approval would have sufficed, but he only deigned to notice her if he could snipe at her for helping Neville.

Hermione wrapped and bagged the witch's purchases and pasted a professionally cheery smile on her face as she handed them over. It faded abruptly as she found herself facing "the greasy git".

That had always been Ron's name for him at Hogwarts, but she'd always scolded him whenever he'd used it. She'd never called him that herself, not even in the privacy of her thoughts or after a particularly disastrous encounter, but, after their last meeting, he'd figured in her mind exclusively under that name. It was the only thing that seemed to numb the ridiculous ache of being rebuffed so comprehensively when she'd tried so hard. Ornery, obstinate, greasy git.

"Miss Granger," he acknowledged her with a calm stare. "Is Slug here?"

"I'm afraid not, Professor, but -"

"I'm not your professor anymore."

"Do you mean I should call you Mr. Snape?"

Not mister, Master," he corrected, with a curl of the lip.

"Master Snape?" Her eyes widened and she hid a smile. That sounded like something she might call a six-year-old if she was in a particularly formal mood.

"Really, have I discovered a fact the little know-it-all doesn't know?" he sneered with overdone satisfaction. "How surprising. The correct mode of address for all Potioneers is Master, or Mistress for a female of course. A name is added to avoid confusion only in the uncommon event that more than one Potioneer is present."

She ground her teeth. Pompous, patronising, greasy git.

"I'll stick with calling you Professor, sir, if I may." By supreme effort, she managed to keep her voice sweet.

"I imagine you will do as you choose, Miss Granger, but nothing will more surely mark you as uncouth than refusing to adhere to the norms of polite society."

She worried her lower lip as she thought that over. She didn't want to seem out-of-place in the Wizarding World, but the thought of calling him Master sent the angry blood rushing to her head and scalding words to her lips. Call him Master? She just wouldn't call him anything.

"Thank you for the warning." She hid her clenched fists in her robes. "I'm sure you know everything there is to know about polite society." The slight emphasis on "everything" and "polite" conveyed the none-too-subtle insult.

He smirked.

"I don't claim to know everything. There is only one know-it-all in this room."

Quarrelsome, quick-tempered, greasy git.

"You're not my professor anymore," she echoed him. "If I'm a know-it-all, at least you don't have to suffer me in the future."

"Seven years was more than enough suffering for a lifetime," he murmured.

She swallowed a lump in her throat, transported back to a dusty third year classroom and a lesson on werewolves. Her efforts to impress him had been punished as usual with an insult. She wasn't that uncertain little girl anymore and she didn't have to take his put-downs in silence.

"Yes, that's what all your students said about you," she snarled.

"Did Slug and Jigger hire you to insult their patrons, Miss Granger? I find that highly doubtful."

"No, it's a free service, reserved entirely for you!"

She waited for an explosion that never came. Cold, black eyes travelled slowly down her form and up again to her glowering face. Her former teacher raised an eyebrow and spoke in his silkiest voice.

"Still trying to impress me, with all your Gryffindor recklessness intact? I see graduation hasn't changed you at all. You always did far more than was requested or desirable."

She gritted her teeth. Rotten, razor-tongued, greasy git. The angrier she got, the more he smirked. Oh how she wanted to slap that smugness off his face!

But that would only get her in trouble. She'd lose this job and gain a bad reputation that might prevent her finding other work. Of course, she could always work at her parents' dental practice, as she did the other three days of the week, but she really wasn't that much interested in teeth, especially not in painful and painstaking Muggle ways of fixing them. If her parents had allowed it, she'd have shrunk her teeth already in first year. She'd found a spell for the purpose weeks before the troll incident had curtailed her library time by giving her friends.

Besides, he had enough battle-experience to grab her hand before it connected with his face and then he'd mock her for not controlling her temper. She took a deep, calming breath.

"You haven't changed either, sir. You're still the nastiest, most disagreeable man I've ever met."

"Like you, I aim for excellence," he murmured, unfazed. "Only I find it comes rather effortlessly."

The customer is always right; be patient, pleasant and polite," she chanted to herself. "Keep your temper, keep your cool; if you explode then you're the fool." Three brisk repetitions brought her blood pressure down enough that she could fix a polite smile on her stiff face.

"Mr. Slug should be back in less than half an hour or I could fetch Mr. Jigger from the backroom if you prefer," she said aloud. "Unless you'd like to trust your business to me?" And let him dare intimate he thought her incompetent!

His eyes dropped to her hand that was longingly fingering her wand, then returned to her face.

"I wouldn't advise it," he warned in a menacing whisper.

Her hand jerked as she caught her breath. Sour, scary, scowling, greasy git.

"No, sir."

He held her gaze for a moment longer, hard black eyes boring into defiant brown ones.

"I'll wait for Slug. He prefers to deal with the annual Hogwarts inventory himself. You may show me the latest shipment of nixie toenails. I understand Jigger's found a new supplier."

"Yes and I believe he's proving very reliable." She settled into shoptalk with relief. ""Mr. Jigger is negotiating with him over several new lines he's promised us." She pulled out a crystal jar from under the counter as she spoke and placed it in front of him.

"Excellent. I'll have a word with Jigger later."

He put out his hand and she gave him her little gold tongs and magnifying glass without argument. He extracted one dripping nail – as nixies were water sprites their bits needed to be stored wet – and inspected it through the glass, turning it this way and that.

She knew he was an expert, he could brew Wolfsbane, but she'd never actually seen him at work. The intent frown, with mouth relaxed into an almost-smile, took years off his age. She remembered with a start that he was not quite forty. Most of the time, he looked closer to sixty. She smiled just a little, picturing him in his office, his capable elegant fingers chopping and stirring.

He carefully replaced the nail in the jar before handing everything back. His face stiffened into its usual sour lines as she wiped the counter. What she'd always thought pure bad temper, she now identified as strain, fatigue and, she thought, wary defensiveness.

"I didn't see you here two weeks ago," he remarked.

"I've been working here all summer, but only on Mondays and Thursdays," she answered the implied question.

"I wouldn't have thought they paid you enough to cover the amount you gave me." He had turned that look of intense concentration on her. She hated that it brought the blood to her cheeks.

"They don't. I work in the Muggle world the rest of the week," she snapped.

"Still torn between two worlds, not sure which one you belong in?"

"I've never belonged in the Muggle world." She gave him a scathing look. "It would have been pleasanter to be welcomed in this one."

"Yet the harder one fights for something, the more one values it," he reflected.

He'd made her fight very hard. She opened her mouth to blast him and closed it again. Maybe he hadn't welcomed her, but he'd spent two decades ensuring there would be a place, a safe place, for her and other Muggle-borns. If actions spoke louder than words, that had been a far more useful welcome than kind words and agreeable smiles.

"You learnt that the hard way, didn't you?" she said, after a long silence.

"Doesn't everyone?" He scowled.

It struck her suddenly that he was speaking to her as adult to adult, not teacher to student. Now that she came to think of it, he'd done that the last time they spoke as well. She'd been so caught up in the disappointment of his rebuke, she hadn't even noticed till now.

No threats, no looming, no crushing assumption of authority; they were arguing as equals, snap and counter-snap.

"If they ever learn it at all. You taught me a lot more than I ever realised," she mused.

"I spoke rather harshly at our last meeting," he admitted.

"I don't think you've ever spoken to me anything but harshly."

You thoroughly deserved most of it. But not quite all." He paused, frowning. Their eyes met. "That comment about your teeth was unnecessary."

"Unnecessary? A fine euphemism for just plain rude!" Yet one corner of her mouth tugged upwards. Was this an apology? She was sure it was the only one she'd ever get.

Git. Touchy, testy, tight-lipped, temperamental, not-quite-intolerable git.

**A/N Most of the Potions ingredients in this chapter are non-canon.**


	3. Voddlemort

VODDLEMORT

**This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling who, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and situations elaborated herein.**

**A/N: Spoilers. ****Thanks to all my reviewers. I think some of you read too much into a couple of half-smiles and a little understanding. Well you'll see in this chapter...**

Hermione and her mother were cleaning breakfast away when the Hogwarts owl arrived. With trembling hands, Hermione replaced the small stack of floral-patterned yellow plates on the redwood table and sat down with a thump on a conveniently placed matching chair. One hand pressed against her mouth as the dignified barn owl landed in front of her and extended a claw holding a rolled-up parchment tied with a red ribbon. A crust of toast was within easy reach of its beak. Peck, peck.

"Well, go on. Open it," her mother, a straight-nosed brunette with humorous eyes and an obstinate chin, encouraged her.

"It's my N.E.W.T.s," Hermione muttered.

"Of course it is, dear. You knew they were coming today." Mrs. Granger turned on the tap and poured in some dish detergent. The sink began to fill. "You've faced a basilisk and fought gangs of Death Eaters. Surely you're not more frightened of a little piece of paper."

Hermione took the missive and offered its bearer a shred of smoked salmon. She'd seen owls fishing on a TV documentary a few weeks earlier. It seemed to like it rather better than toast. She shredded a whole slice and began to hand-feed it.

"But this is my future, Mum. What if I've failed?" she worried.

"If the basilisk or your Dark Lord had had their way –"

"Not my Dark Lord!"

"– You wouldn't have had a future! You have to read it sooner or later. It might as well be now."

"Yes, Mum," Hermione sighed. She offered the last piece to the bird, then shooed it away, "Thanks, you'd better be off now."

It ruffled all its feathers and fixed a greedy eye on her.

"There isn't any more. Off with you."

A rather disgruntled owl flew away, leaving the slight bushy-haired girl pulling off the ribbon. Her mother turned off the tap and came over to the table.

"How did you do?"

She picked up the discarded plates as her daughter turned her a face glowing with relief.

"It's OK, mum. It's all Os!"

"What else did you expect? Have you ever got less?"

"There was that time in the O.W.L.s when the astronomy exam was interrupted. I only got a conceded O for that."

"Yes, but none of your N.E.W.T.s were disrupted. It's over three months since Voddlemort -"

""Voldemort," Hermione huffed an exasperated sigh.

"That's what I said, Voddlemort. Anyway it's getting on for four months since he died. You haven't had any more troubles with Death Eaters, have you?"

"Not at Hogwarts or anywhere else I've been. There were pitched battles in Wiltshire and Somerset though."

"Exactly! So why did you think you might do less well this time?"

Mrs. Granger took the plates to the sink and returned for the cups.

"I didn't really. I just get nervous about it. And don't tell me it's silly that, after all I've done, I still see failed exams when there's a Boggart, because I know it is and it doesn't help." Hermione frowned as she turned the parchment over. "Is this all, though? I thought there'd be copies of the teachers' recommendations. Oh, silly of me, there's a second sheet."

She scanned it rapidly, "Outstanding – Excellent – Most talented student for decades. Oh!"

Her eyes widened, then narrowed alarmingly, and her cheeks got redder and redder as her face twisted into a scowl.

"I hate him. I hate him. Look what he's written!"

She jumped up to give the parchment to her mother, who shook her head and lifted wet, gloved hands out of the sink. She held a plate in one hand, a dish-brush in the other.

"You hold it for me. Where's my glasses?"

Hermione pulled the small silver-rimmed pair out of her mother's top pocket and balanced them on her nose.

"There, look. The spiky black scrawl. I hate him."

Mrs. Granger read aloud, "One can only hope Miss Granger will eventually outgrow her determination to demonstrate her exemplary knowledge and application to all who will listen and many who will not. Anyone with the patience to put up with her will acquire an excellent student." She cast her daughter a commiserating look. "Well, that's not too bad really."

"Not too bad? It's awful!" And to think she'd felt a little bit of sympathy last time she'd encountered him. And he'd already written this and probably been laughing at her. It all went to show you could never trust him to be fair.

"Well you can't blame him for not liking you much if you stole such expensive ingredients from him."

Hermione had had to tell her parents the truth and that had led to further revelations that had shocked them. The school had kept them informed about the course of the war, but they'd had no idea how much had centred around their daughter.

"Just be grateful he didn't write that in his report. It could have been much worse," Mrs. Granger added, turning back to the sink.

"What could have been worse?" Mr. Granger wandered in from the study with the Times crossword in his hand. "Seven letter word meaning former?" he appealed to his womenfolk.

"Onetime?"

"Retired? Ancient?"

"Starts with a Q."

"Quondam!" Mrs. Granger beat her daughter to the punch.

"That's it! So Mya, what's wrong?" He looked at the parchments and the discarded ribbon with surprise. "Not happy with your N.E.W.T.s?"

"The marks are OK," Hermione grumbled. "And most of the teachers' comments. It's just Professor Snape."

Her father ambled over to exchange his newspaper for the sheet was holding out to him. As he read, he ran his hand over his balding head with its fluffy ring of sandy hair.

"Hmmm, what an idiosyncratic mode of expression. I don't think it's as bad as you're making out. He calls you an excellent student and says your knowledge and application are exemplary."

"But look what else he says! He won't get away with this! I'm going to Diagon straight away to owl him."

"But, Hermione -"

Half an hour later, Hermione was queuing at Eeylops with her last two weeks' pay, just enough to buy a small Short-Eared Owl and some basic owl-care products. Although all Eeylops owls would carry a message at any time of day, she preferred using a species that was naturally partly-diurnal. Besides English owls were cheaper than imported species. She felt a bit guilty spending money she was supposed to be saving, but it was about time she had her own means of communicating with other witches and wizards.

Returnig home, she started to draft a letter. It proved much harder than she'd expected, but she decided her fifth attempt was good enough to send. She thought it sounded dignified and mature.

_Professor Snape,_

_I would like an explanation of the very ungenerous comments you made in my recommendation. When and where may I see you?_

_Sincerely,_

_H. Granger_

All that Saturday afternoon, she fretted around the house, with hands that wouldn't settle and a mind clouded by resentment. Long before her owl finally returned, even her gentle absent-minded father was ready to hex her, if he hadn't been a Muggle, and her mother had made hasty arrangements to spend the day with her sister.

"There you are, Athenais," Hermione cooed as the bird coasted in through the window. "Good girl, back from the battus horribilis of the dungeons without even a scratch."

The historical Athenais, one of Louis XIV's mistresses, had been a shady character, poisoner and Satanist, but Hermione had always loved the musical-sounding version of the name Athena. She had been pleased to discover an earlier and much nicer Athenais, more commonly called by her other name Eudocia, in her readings of Byzantine history.

The tiny owl preened itself and consented to eat a water-cracker. As Hermione unrolled the parchment, Athenais glided around the room with long lazy wing-strokes before settling on her owner's shoulder.

It wasn't the safest perch. A moment later, the little owl soared to the top of the bookshelf as an incensed Hermione jumped to her feet, throwing away her letter, and began striding around the room muttering rude names.

"Arrogant, acid-tongued alligator. Biased, bullying bat. Cruel, callous creep." She got as far as "Irritating, ill-tempered icicle" before the dearth of good J and K insults slowed her progress. "Jerk" and "jackass", yes, but "jaundiced" and "judgmental" didn't have a sharp enough edge and "jealous" didn't quite fit.

When she found herself looking up K with dictionary in one hand and thesaurus in the other, she stopped in abrupt realisation and slammed both volumes back on the shelves. Athenais gave her a reproachful look, but, since Short-eared Owls are silent, was unable to back up her disapproval with hooting.

"This is ridiculous!" Hermione laughed at herself. "I put up with him for seven years of misery without ever getting this angry. Why am I fussing now, when I don't have to see him anymore?"

The answer was simple. Because this was her academic record he was smirching, not her face or her forethought. This actually mattered. His antagonism had never previously affected her results. She'd come top in every test or exam and had received a steady succession of Os for her essays and potions, so she'd been willing to ignore the rest.

She sat down and picked up the letter again.

_Miss Granger,_

_I had hoped you meant it when you said you never wanted to see me again. I see nothing to be gained in a meeting, but if you still wish it I will be in my office next Saturday at 2 p.m. _

_S.S_.

A week! A whole week! She chewed on her lip, but finally shrugged. At least it hadn't been a complete refusal. No point continuing to fume over it. Twenty minutes later her dad, sidling into the room, was relieved to see her smiling as she encouraged Athenais and Crookshanks to play tug of war with a ball of wool.

The other owls started arriving the next day. By Friday, Hermione already had fifty inquiries, including nine from Potioneers, and an interview that morning at St. Mungo's.

Potioneer Alingsworth was a short round wizard with a toothy smile, a warm wet handclasp and a trick of speaking very soft and very fast.

"Good morning, Master. Thank you for seeing me," Hermione said as they sat down in two maroon leather armchairs. They were just a bit too soft to be comfortable, especially for such a nerve-racking occasion as this. She hoped she wouldn't make too much of a fool of herself when she tried to climb out at the end.

"Oh, no, no, no, don't call me Master!" He looked a bit horrified. "Martin will do. Yes, Martin will do perfectly."

Hermione gulped. Had Snape been making fun of her? If that detestable, duplicitous double-crosser had been within reach at that moment, she'd have given his nose another fracture.

"Professor Snape told me -"

"Yes, yes, poor dear Severus, always so formal and correct. But we're all friends here at St. Mungo's Potions Department, no standing on ceremony here."

Oh. Not such a double-crosser after all.

Another toothy smile as "Martin" leaned forward.

"He did give you such a glowing report, can't remember the last time he recommended someone so highly, yes, very glowing indeed!"

Hermione's mouth dropped open.

"It can't have been the same as the one I read," she spluttered.

It was.

"Surprised you misunderstood after seven years, yes, seven years of his teaching. Of course, you children do take him so seriously, very seriously indeed, poor dear Severus. Such a grumpy fellow, but his bark's much worse than his bite, oh much worse. Wouldn't hurt a fly, not a fly, my dear."

Hermione goggled. Didn't he read the Daily Prophet? Didn't he know Snape had been a Death Eater, a spy and a deadly duellist who'd taken out ten villains at a time in the final battles?

"You need to learn how to read him, that's all, just a little matter of reading him right," the man continued, unaware of her thoughts.

"How did you read it then?" she demanded.

"Best student I've ever had, would keep her myself if I weren't such a curmudgeon!" His eyes twinkled. "You'll have all the Potioneers in Europe after you, Hermia, yes all of them!" He rushed on, not giving her a chance to correct his mispronunciation of her name. "Why Severus sends us all reports of his top two or three students every year but nothing like this one, nothing! Here look at the other two from your year."

He extracted two papers from the untidy pile at the front of his desk and gave them to her.

"Read them."

"Miss Brocklehurst's willingness to fill the gaps in her knowledge shows promise of her one day achieving that goal." She looked up at him.

"She's eager, very eager, always ready to learn."

"Mr. Boot moves with the pace and accuracy of an inchworm."

A slow worker but very thorough and accurate, very accurate," he explained.

Hermione's eyes went wide and her stomach felt as if it was filled with rocks.

Oh Merlin! And the man was expecting her tomorrow to discuss what she'd called his "very ungenerous comments".

He was going to wipe the floor with her.

A/N Hmmm, "poor dear Severus"? I wonder what Snape calls him?

"Battus horribilis" - Commonwealth readers will recognise this as a parody of the Queen's Xmas speech in 1992 when she talked about her "horrible year".

I've changed Potions-Masters, which is not really canon (as canon neither supports nor excludes Mastership studies in any discipline) to Potioneers, which is. (It's listed in the title of a Potions periodical.)


	4. A Liberal Dose

A LIBERAL DOSE

**This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling who, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and situations elaborated herein.**

**A/N: Spoilers. ****Thanks to all my reviewers, especially Dazzleberry. **

Apparition was Hermione's favourite form of transport, without the soot of flooing or the dizzying acrophobia of flying a broom. As for flying on a thestral – don't even ask!

It was a nuisance not being able to Apparate directly into Hogwarts though. She wasn't sure how far out the anti-Apparition wards stretched. Unwilling to risk splinching by bouncing off them, she'd chosen to apparate to Hogsmeade and walk up the well-remembered path from there.

As she strolled, Hermione mulled over her mother's advice, "A liberal dose of humble pie," and her own instant prediction; "He'll only grind it in my face!" A moment later, her ears had heard what her mouth had said, sending her into a fit of somewhat hysterical laughter. The thought of Professor Snape in a food fight, smashing custard cream pies into repentant faces, was just too ludicrous.

She wasn't laughing now. She was on her way to once again apologise to the sourest, most unforgiving grudge-holder she'd ever met and, no matter how much she pondered, she couldn't think of any words that might placate him. She'd rather be facing an angry Hippogriff.

She reached the castle's front doors with twenty minutes to spare. Filch let her in, with much grumbling for the inconvenience, then she crept down staircases and along corridors till she stood in front of Snape's office. She took a deep breath and knocked.

"Enter." Even through the door he sounded furious.

She gulped and fixed her mind on that image of a food-fighting Snape with custard cream pie in each hand. It gave her courage to push open the door and stand just inside.

"Professor Snape?"

Once again, he was writing at his desk. He glanced up scowling. Custard cream Snape wavered and dissolved into acid-and-vitriol Snape. She gulped again.

"You wished to speak to me, Miss Granger?" He didn't invite her to sit down.

She edged further in, her hands sweaty and trembling.

"Professor, I just want to say at the outset that I was wrong and I apologise."

Cold, black eyes looked her over with the same distaste he normally kept for Neville's melted cauldrons.

"Indeed?" he sneered. "Was it necessary to impose on my time and patience to tell me something that could just as well have been written in a letter?"

"I thought a personal apology was in order. I was inexcusably rude and disrespectful and I'd like to make amends."

Now he was looking at her with the lip-curl he usually reserved for Neville after a cauldron-melting disaster.

"I believe I've already made it quite clear that I do not desire your company. Your apology is accepted and now you may leave."

Prudence suggested immediate obedience. Gryffindors are not prudent. She took another few steps in a rush.

"Please give me a chance to make things right with you," she begged.

"What is the cause of this obsession with gaining my approval?" he hissed, tightlipped with exasperation. "Do you imagine I've ever lost one moment's sleep over your very evident mistrust of me?"

"I did trust you!"

He raised an eyebrow as he toyed with his quill.

"And yet you waltzed into the Dark Lord's trap two years ago. Not only didn't you inform me, as the last Order member available, but, even after you watched me receive the news, you thought me either too stupid or too incompetent to deal with it. Or did you think me a traitor?"

Hermione chewed on her lower lip. There wasn't much she could say, but she said it anyhow.

"We were too worried to think straight."

"Trust does not require thinking straight – or indeed thinking at all," he pointed out.

She flushed and hung her head; at once sorry that she'd pinned her hair in a bun. She'd wanted to look grown-up but she felt naked without her bushy mop to hide behind, especially when he gave her that look of repulsion.

"I was always telling the boys that you were trustworthy," she declared in a small, unsteady voice. "I reminded them over and over that Professor Dumbledore wouldn't have employed you if he didn't trust you."

He snorted.

"An argument which might make more sense if he hadn't also employed a string of Defense teachers who were all either incompetent or dark," he sniped.

"Professor Lupin wasn't incompetent or dark!"

"He was both. Werewolves are included in Defence texts for a reason. You three were extremely fortunate not to be bitten that night."

She remembered how he'd always complained about Lupin's disorganisation and low expectations every full moon when he taught Lupin's classes. It would be tactful not to argue. Gryffindors prized loyalty above tact.

"But, Professor -"

The ice in his eyes froze the words on her lips.

"I have already pointed out to you that the proper way to address me now you've graduated is Master. You might like to correct that before prating again about trust and respect. You consistently disrespected me in the classroom and you continue to do so every time we meet."

"I've always respected you," she protested, thinking of all the times that she'd scolded her friends for leaving off his title.

"Respect is not consistent with open defiance, Miss Granger. Nor with stealing, hexing or general disobedience. I was far too lenient with you always."

Her jaw dropped. For a moment, she was speechless.

"You were lenient? I can't believe you said that," she squeaked.

"And I note your belief in your respect with equal incredulity. Think back, Miss Granger. Was it not a rule that, unless specifically requested to work together, students were required to work alone? Did you not consistently violate that rule, despite being repeatedly instructed not to assist Mr. Longbottom?"

"Yes, but -"

"But? Who was the teacher, you or me?"

"You, sir, but -"

"Did you ever stop to think that I might have sound pedagogic reasons for that rule? How was he supposed to learn with you doing all his thinking for him?"

"But he was so scared of you, especially after you threatened to poison his toad."

He gave a nasty smile.

"His toad? Tell me, have you ever taken your cat to class with you?"

"Of course not."

"Would you say that pets belong in classrooms?"

"It was only a toad. It fitted in his pocket," she excused.

"And yet I seem to recall seeing it out of his pocket. You are aware how potentially dangerous Potions is. Would you say distractions belong in a Potions classroom?"

He still hadn't invited her to sit and she didn't dare without permission. She shuffled her feet.

"Did he learn his lesson, Miss Granger?" Fierce, dark eyes glared into hers. She glared back.

"Malfoy throwing ingredients into our cauldrons was more dangerous and you never punished him!"

He slammed his empty hand on the desk. She jumped.

"Are you aware of any occasions when Gryffindors deliberately made Potions explode?"

A guilty blush mantled her cheeks and she hung her head. She knew what he was referring to, the time Harry threw fireworks into the swelling solution so she could pinch items from his office.

"Yes, sir."

"Did I see who was responsible? Was I able to punish the culprit?"

"No, sir."

"And the difference between the two situations was?"

"None, sir."

"None, exactly. I should have failed you for cheating."

Her head jerked up to stare.

"Cheating?" she echoed. She'd always refused to help Harry and Ron with their homework when they asked. Well, almost always.

"Yes, cheating. The act of assisting someone to gain extra marks through dishonestly passing off another's work as his own."

She sagged. Neville. She'd helped him every class. His Hermione-assisted Potions had garnered much better marks than he ever could have achieved on his own.

"Oh. I never thought of it that way."

"Perhaps I overestimated your intelligence. Should I have explained in simpler language?" His smooth silky voice was perfectly suited for the delivery of insults.

She put her hands on his desk and leaned over it. If she couldn't sit down, at least she could try for some eye contact.

"I'm sorry, all right? I apologised before and I apologise again now. Won't you ever just let it go?" Of course he wouldn't. He was still holding twenty-year-old grudges against Harry.

"You requested an explanation and I gave you one. Now if you'd please leave."

Swallowing hard, she shook her head.

"You've given me a lot to think about, but, however badly I behaved, I was a child!" The words rushed out with passionate, desperate conviction. "Just a child, rebelling against a parent-figure because rebelling is one of the silly things kids do. And at some level, I did it because I knew it was safe, that you were safe! And if that isn't trust, what is?"

Professor Snape looked her over. Her eyes were bright and damp, her chest heaving a little, her hair beginning to come down.

Why was the Gryffindor emblem a lion when a bull in a china shop would have been so much more appropriate? Headless, heedless head-butting Gryffindors! He sighed and rubbed his forehead. There was a thread of truth in her appeal. He'd been judging her childhood behaviour by adult standards. It was a habit of his. Yet she was that cheeky chatterbox child no longer and she was trying to change.

"Very well, Miss Granger. Sit down and we'll attempt to start again," he conceded.

She gaped and smiled and couldn't stop. In a moment, she was sitting on the chair, leaning forward, her face bright and eager.

"Thank you, I'll try to do better this time."

"Have you decided what line of work to pursue? You were so concerned about my report that perhaps you are planning to apprentice to a Potioneer?" he began.

"I'm not sure. I do enjoy brewing when I'm not waiting for you to reprimand me." She flashed him a rueful smile. "But I don't know that I'd want to do nothing else for the rest of my life. I've always had trouble narrowing down my interests. Perhaps you'd be willing to advise me?"

"Didn't Professor McGonagall give you career advice in fifth year?"

"Yes, but you have more practical experience in the field."

"You do realise the first year of a Potions apprenticeship you'll do little more than the tedious preparatory work, like disemboweling toads and pickling rats' brains?" he smirked.

"Just like an extended detention," she mused. "Is that why you give out those sort of jobs as detentions, to teach us what to expect? Or just to save the bother of training an apprentice?"

"The main purpose of any punishment is to teach a disciplinary lesson. Delegating the drudgework is merely a side benefit. It frees me for more complex tasks."

"Like Wolfsbane. I'd love to learn how to do that." Her brown eyes sparkled with eager pleading.

"Then you'd better choose a Master who knows how."

"You could teach me if you were willing," she suggested.

"I don't take apprentices, not even ones who call me by my correct title." His tone was crushing. "Perhaps you'd like to explain why you refuse."

She chewed her lower lip and gave a helpless shrug.

"I don't think I should say. It will only make you angry."

And you think your refusal will make me less so?"

She stared at the floor, at the jars of pickled creatures on the high shelf behind him, at the quill in his hand, at the dusty fireplace.

Licking her lips she muttered, "Maybe. It's just –I can't help wondering – I mean - Every time you say that -"

"Get on with it."

She took a deep breath and gabbled, "When you went to a Death Eater meeting, who called who Master? I'm sorry."

His eyes flashed as his lips thinned almost to vanishing point. Gryffindors! Reckless tactless fearless Gryffindors! He glared at her penitent bent head and considered. He could either throw her out or change the subject and it was clear which course she was expecting him to take. Perversely he chose the other.

"I imagine you've begun to receive offers by now?"

She followed his lead with relief.

"Inquiries, yes. I had my first interview with the Potioneer at St Mungo's yesterday."

"No doubt he gave you all the approval you've ever wanted," he jibed with a thin smile.

"Yes, but I didn't want it from him!" She blushed and added, "It's just that – He just doesn't seem very sensible."

He stared at her in silence for a while. It was pleasant to watch her fidget and flush and hunt for words that wouldn't come. He'd endured her forthrightness for seven years, but apparently, at last, he'd silenced her.

"Jumping to conclusions again?" he jeered at last.

"I can't help being a Gryffindor, I suppose." She wondered if she should tell him. Maybe not. She wouldn't dare use the words "poor dear Severus" in his hearing. But – She made a face.

"He told me you wouldn't hurt a fly." She shrugged.

"Brainless booby," he muttered, then looked into her eyes and added with callous deliberation, "I hurt many hundreds as target practice in my teens till I graduated to human victims." That would teach her to bring up his Death Eater past. And if that was too candid for her to cope with? Too bad for her. If you can't stand the heat, get out of the cauldron.

She lifted her chin. He wanted to fight dirty, did he? Very well then. She pasted a sweet smile on her face.

"He told me I just needed to read you right. According to him, the translation of your recommendation was, I quote, 'If I wasn't such a curmudgeon, I'd apprentice you myself.' "

Black eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, spitting out each word with slow deliberate menace.

"Don't push your luck."

"No sir." She looked down, then timidly up at him. "I know you won't apprentice me, but maybe I could help you? Brew Skele-Gro or Pepper-Up or anything else you might need before school starts?"

"If you really wish to serve detention, I'm sure Filch would be happy for your services, Miss Granger. There's less to do during the holidays, but I'm sure with encouragement," _or without it,_ "he could think up something adequately repulsive. Would you like me to ask?"

She shuddered at his anticipatory smirk.

"You've done enough favours for me, sir, thank you very much." She jumped up as she spoke and began sidling to the door. "I couldn't expect you to do any more."

"But this one would be my pleasure, I assure you," he purred.

Hermione abandoned her original intention of seeking out any of the other professors for a confidential chat. She had a feeling it would be safer not to linger. He might not be able to give her a detention, but he could find other ways of making her sorry she'd stayed.


	5. A Penitential Vigil

A PENITENTIAL VIGIL

**Disclaimer: This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling who created and, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and settings elaborated herein.**

**A/N: Spoilers, knowledge assumed. Thanks to all my reviewers.**

It was a year to the day since Voldemort had died. There were commemoration ceremonies all over Great Britain but this one, the one at the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch, was restricted to the people who'd actually been there at the time. Plus, of course, the Minister for Magic, the Ministers of other departments, the Wizengamot, their assorted Secretaries and under-Secretaries and a sprinkling of reporters. It was undoubtedly the longest and most tedious ceremony of all.

Hermione rotated her shoulder-blades, flexed her leg-muscles and surreptitiously stretched her arms past her knees. The speeches were all but over, the long list of Voldemort's victims had reached the Muggle Ws – wizards and Muggles had been listed separately, much to her annoyance – the surviving Order of Merlin, First Class, recipients had been paraded, their posthumous counterparts eulogised and soon Minister Scrimgeour would be standing up for his final half-hour of political pontification. Hermione fingered her Order of Merlin, Second Class, and hid a yawn.

The Battle of Hogwarts had begun during the final Quidditch match of 1998, a play-off between equal-placed Gryffindor and Slytherin for the Cup. When the Slytherin Seeker, Chasers and Beaters had suddenly replaced fouls with Unforgivables the crowd had not immediately realised that games were over and fighting for their lives had begun. Not till Sloper and Professor Hooch had fallen and the shouts from the back rows had turned to screams.

The anti-Apparition wards had fallen and the stands were surrounded by Death Eaters. It had been chaotic, terrifying, a nightmare – But finally Voldemort had fallen and after that the outcome was never in doubt.

"And in conclusion," Minister Scrimgeour thundered –

Hermione's eyes slid around the bemedalled dress-robed crowd, calculating the best way through to rejoin her friends. She hoped it really was the conclusion this time. She was hot and tired and headachy. Were they going to do this every year? Circe, she hoped not!

About thirty-five minutes later, she was repeating those sentiments to a small knot of Gryffindors.

"It could be a lot worse," Neville reminded her, leaning heavily on his wooden leg. "At least we don't have to worry about being mobbed by autograph hunters." They had all quickly learnt to duck and dive out of the way in the first month.

"Only by the Ministers and their hangers-on," gloomed Harry, who'd been sick of fame long before any of the others had tasted it.

"Nah." Ron, tallest of them all, scanned the crowd. "None of them are heading our way yet. Everyone has someone to talk to. 'Cept Snape of course. Miserable git."

Their eyes turned with Ron's to the middle distance, where a tall black figure punctuated the sea of colour. Snape's head was slightly bent, but his back and shoulders were straight as ever as he stared down at the bare patch of ground where Voldemort had shriveled and flared into a fireball. Even Sprout and Neville hadn't been able to persuade anything to grow there since. Harry rubbed his arms in remembered pain even though the burns had been gone for months.

Hermione felt a stab of recognition. Miserable. Yes, that was it, he was miserable. Under that cold, grim mask, he'd probably been grieving almost since before she was born, grieving in silence because whom could a spy confide in? All of his friends, Sirius had told them once, had been Death Eaters. So they were all dead or in Azkaban now. And he'd put them there.

"He looks as nasty as ever," Ron added. "Think he's paying his last respects?"

Even the sight of Snape in battle, magnificent and deadly, hadn't abated either Ron's dislike or his mistrust. He still insisted that, if Snape had truly been on their side, he wouldn't have warned them only that an attack was imminent, but would have included the day and time and place. Nobody had been able to convince him otherwise and they no longer bothered to try.

"Probably wishing we'd all leave so he could dance on Voldie's grave," Ginny whispered hoarsely. The healers said her voice would come back one day, though two fingers and her left ear were gone forever.

Despite the ache of sympathy in her chest, even Hermione laughed at the thought of Snape dancing. In seven years of sneering smirks and sarcasm, they'd never seen him smile. Today he seemed to her fancy like a medieval knight standing a penitential vigil. Ron wasn't the only person who wouldn't forgive him. She was sure he'd never forgiven himself.

She let her mind drift to the last time she'd seen him. After that N.E.W.T.s letter confrontation fiasco, she'd dithered for a week before deciding to ask him for career advice. After all, he had agreed to start afresh and had even displayed a little interest in her future career.

"I'm tempted to direct you to Siberia," he'd written back, "if only to put a stop to this tediously repetitive imposition on my time and patience. At least it might cool down some of that Gryffindor hotheadedness. I suppose, however, you'd only wear out your owl with messages. I can spare you an hour and a half on Sunday afternoon, 3 pm, my office."

She'd gone with no high hopes and returned with confident decision.

He'd started by naming the half dozen other Potioneers who could teach her to brew Wolfsbane. She hadn't minded that two brewed it for their own consumption. She wasn't scared of werewolves. However, Ivanov used his apprentices as poison-testers, Yelena Polgarski harvested body-parts, Carreda had married and buried four apprentices and just wed a fifth, LeFeuille was "harmless", Fontaggio's wife was too jealous for him to teach females and Bertram at the Ministry was a glory-hound who'd name her work his own - and blackmail her into silence.

So then he'd run through all the other Potioneers of Europe, followed by a discussion of other Potions-related jobs from Curse-breaking to cosmetics, Medi-witchery to the Ministry. Finally, she'd surprised him by settling on joining the Unspeakables.

"You've spent seven years making a name for yourself and now you choose to be nameless?" he'd demanded.

"I think I've already proved I belong here. The people who will accept me already do and the ones who don't never will, so why should I waste my time trying to change them?"

"Well, at least you learned something from my lessons," he'd murmured and she'd stared.

"Were you trying to teach me that?"

"There was little else I could teach you," he'd sniped, adding in a lower tone, "Take control of your own life and no one will control it for you."

She'd been chewing on that thought ever since.

Professor Snape blinked.

There was only so long you could stare at a bare patch of ground, no matter how many memories and regrets it stirred. All year, he'd avoided this spot. He'd never set foot on the pitch and he'd stayed away from all Quidditch matches except Slytherin ones. Those he couldn't evade, but he'd been careful to keep his attention on the air, even when the action moved towards the ground.

Today, he'd had no choice. His attendance was compulsory. Once his eyes had fallen on the spot where the Dark Lord – where Voldemort died, he hadn't wanted to look away. How different it all could have been. The waste, the destruction, the desolation –

When he finally turned to leave, there was that irritating not-a-student-anymore again. Her bright brown eyes were at once eager and confiding.

"Professor," she called.

He sighed.

"Miss Granger, you really are the most tiresome girl. Have you come to apologise to me again? You may as well save your breath."

"I think I've exhausted my sorrys but I realised I never thanked you."

He raised an eyebrow.

"For my career advice?"

"That too," she said, her pink cheeks getting pinker. "For everything. For keeping us safe while we were at school -"

"– No more than my duty as your teacher."

"– For giving up everything to fight Voldemort -"

He scowled. And this was her business, how?

"Everything? I'm still alive," he pointed out, then watched her trying to bite back angry words. She didn't succeed.

"Buried alive, you mean!"

"Don't be impertinent," he snapped.

"Do you still miss them? Or are you used to being alone?" she asked quietly.

She was like a particularly annoying gnat that keeps returning, no matter how often you swat it. But no one else had ever cared – or dared - enough to ask.

He kept his face stony as he looked her over, cataloguing all her clumsy Gryffindor dive-in-headfirst-onto-a-submerged-log-and-break-your-silly-neck recklessness. Then he tried a glower, but she was still looking at him with those soft, sincere eyes.

He shook his head impatiently. Answering her question would be the stupidest thing he'd done since returning to Voldemort as a spy, but somehow it had all the inevitability of a Longbottom explosion.

"Do I still miss who?"

"Your friends."

"Define friends," he growled.

"People you care about, people who care about you."

"Strange, I was sure trust and loyalty had to figure in there somewhere." _I have no friends. I betrayed them all_.

"It was the right thing to do," she assured him. "You had to do it – to save the world."

Gryffindors were always so sure they knew what was the right thing to do. But she had a functioning brain. Now to make her use it.

"Oh? Then you turned Potter in, every time he broke curfew? You told on him for sneaking out to Hogsmeade in third year?"

"That's different."

"Different in kind or in degree?" he pressed.

He watched her eyes drop to the same bare patch he'd been looking at before and waited. He knew it held no answers. The silence grew louder.

"That had nothing to do with saving the world," she protested at last.

_This really was too easy._

"So endangering the life of the only person who could defeat Voldemort had nothing to do with saving the world?" he sneered.

"That's – that's not fair. We didn't know."

"Oh, you didn't know. That makes everything all right."

He watched her expressive face and knew the exact moment she recognised her hypocrisy. Now she was realising she was wrong, now that she had neither right nor ability to judge, now that she'd never betray her friends no matter what they did. She was a Gryffindor after all and would always place friendship above rules, loyalty above the law. Hadn't she done so all along?

"You mentioned trust and loyalty," she rallied. "Professor Dumbledore trusted you."

"I trust my chair not to break underneath me as I sit on it. Does that make it my friend?" _He never cared about me. I was only a flunky to him._

Her eyes were troubled now, he could see. She always cared, always.

"You don't have to stay here anymore. Now that Voldemort's gone – and you're a war-hero – you could get a job anywhere."

"I've no wish to leave. There isn't anything I could do on the outside more important than moulding the next generation," he admitted. Her astonishment was almost amusing.

"You – you mean – you like teaching?"

"Not especially. But there's something quite satisfying about taking a dunderhead like Longbottom and turning him into a competent member of society."

Why was he telling her this? After twenty years of secrecy and watchfulness, Occlumency and shielding, where one slip could end his life or his usefulness, was he really telling her simply because she'd asked? No Veritaserum, no Imperio, no Legilimens, just questions she probably hadn't even expected him to answer. The words just gushed out like blood from a slit wrist. Praise Merlin, Voldemort had never made her his inquisitor.

"I thought you despised him!"

His lip curled. _Of course you did, I meant you to_.

"I despise carelessness. That's why I detest Gryffindors," hetold her. Then he turned and left before she could reply.

Detest wasn't quite the right word, not for her. Irritating aggravating little wretch. She was like a kitten that will keep scratching holes in your favourite chair then twines itself purring around your legs every time you catch it. Every time he reached to smack her nose he found himself scratching her chin. And he didn't even like cats.

**A/N I originally wrote Minister Bones, but I've changed it to Scrimgeour to better fit in with the sequel. **


	6. Not My Friend

NOT MY FRIEND

**Disclaimer: This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling who created and, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and settings elaborated herein.**

**A/N: Spoilers, knowledge assumed. Thanks to all my reviewers.**

Professor Snape's scowl never left his face as he accepted back his wand from the Ministry security guard. He deeply resented having to waste his one free period and probably miss lunch on this cursed business. The likely prospect of being detained long enough to miss the afternoon classes as well made his teeth grind. Another cache of unfamiliar dark instruments had been found at Malfoy Manor and, since he was the only senior ex-Death Eater to be neither dead nor Demented, his presence was required at the Department of Mysteries. The only saving grace was that he'd be working with Unspeakables, not with Aurors. 

He turned to face the trainee who was waiting to escort him. Of course it would be her, the one ex-student who seemed actually to desire his company. It was sixteen months since she'd graduated and she'd been in training for over a year. Had she been allocated this duty as the most junior staff member or had she asked for it? She was smiling up at him. His stomach clenched at how wrong that was.

She launched into an eager welcome.

"Professor, it's been almost six months since we spoke at the Commemoration -"

He glared down at her.

"Six years wouldn't be long enough for my liking, Miss Granger," he sniped.

The brightness went out of her face and she caught her lip between two small white teeth. In silence, they walked from the entry hall to the lift hall, where a small crowd of witches and wizards was already waiting. She wasn't looking at him anymore and her shoulders were slightly slumped.

'You're not my friend, you'll never be my friend,' he thought savagely, 'and the sooner you get that into your foolish Gryffindor head the better off you'll be.'

They waited without speaking. No one who knew him would wish to start a conversation and she was included in that interdiction by association.

A wrought golden grille finally slid open. Everyone else went in. There were seven levels going up but down was much less frequented as it led only to the Department of Mysteries and the old courtrooms. Snape watched Hermione Granger stare at the wall in front of them, her face set and her fists clenched. She was blinking a little too hard and too often. Another grille opened and he followed her in. It wasn't like her to say nothing for so long. He didn't like it.

"Sulking, Miss Granger?" That should provoke a response.

"You'd recognise sulks, wouldn't you?" Her voice was hard. "You've been sulking for more than twenty years."

His eyes narrowed, glaring into hers. She met his gaze, with a little defiant smirk playing around her mouth.

"If you wish for a war of insults, I'll be happy to oblige you, but you've very little chance of winning," he sneered.

She was studying the floor again. If her hair hadn't been tied back, no doubt she'd have hidden behind it, but instead he could see every thought on her expressive face. She was angry, hurt and more than willing to hurt back. He waited.

"Level nine, the Department of Mysteries," said a cool, female, official voice. That was as low as the lift went.

Hermione folded her lips.

"I've very little chance of winning anything where you're concerned," she muttered, for once choosing the path of prudence.

"Good. At least you recognise that fact."

The lift came to a halt. The grille slid open and they walked out to a long, bare corridor with a plain, black door at the end. They were halfway there before she spoke again.

"Why are you always so rude to me?" There was just the faintest hint of a tremble in her low voice. "I thought, when you agreed we could start over, that that would stop. You were so helpful last year. I love this job and I'm sure I wouldn't have thought of working here without your advice. All I wanted to say was thank you, but you didn't even give me a chance. Every time we talk, you pulverise me!"

"Why do you keep trying to rewrite my character? I'm not nice," he spat out the last word with bitter emphasis, "I never was nice. Seven years of my classes should have been enough for you to learn that."

"But you talked me through all my options and I know you didn't have to -"

"Because, for once in my life, I chose to make sure your brain wouldn't be wasted on some idiotic Gryffindor decision, does that obligate me to be pleasant and friendly thereafter? I think not. You were my student. All you've ever been to me was a mind to be guided."

She sniffed and he eyed her warily, hoping she wasn't going to cry. At least, not till she'd handed him over to her boss and escaped his reluctant company. Reducing another female to tears would hardly damage a reputation as dark as his, but he just wasn't in the mood. He gentled his voice to a silky murmur.

"I'd have done the same for any student who dared to ask me. Even Longbottom."

She cast him a sideways glance. Her eyes were no longer damp. Good.

"You wouldn't," she accused.

They were at the black door now. She ushered him through to a large, circular, black marble room studded with identical black doors and branches of blue-flamed candles. As she closed the door behind herself, the room spun rapidly till the doors and candles blurred into a single blue line. He waited till it stopped.

"Of course I would," he retorted. "I'd tell him the exact truth, that anybody fool enough to offer him a Potions career must be too dunderheaded to stop him blowing himself up – and themselves too. And he shouldn't expect me to come to the funeral."

"I can see you telling him that," she conceded with a ghost of a smile. "In fact, I did see you telling him that, or something very similar, every Potions lesson."

"I'm relieved that your memory isn't completely faulty." He smirked. "Since it's so useful in amending the deficiencies in your intellect."

She glared at him.

"My intellect is not deficient!"

He raised a mocking eyebrow and followed her through the third door on the left into an office that might have been roomy had it not been so jam-packed with gadgets and papers. A string of smaller offices led off from it.

"Rader," Snape greeted the short balding man behind the desk, "What are you wasting my time on today?"

The Head Unspeakable turned a blunt, heavy face with pouched eyes on him, looking him over with no visible change of expression.

"Snape," he replied, without standing up. "We've found another room behind the third dungeon. Would you take a decontamination crew over and see how much you can identify?"

Snape glowered at him, sitting down without invitation and stretching his long legs. Hermione remained standing by the door.

"Ready now?" he snapped.

Even so, it would be a full day's work. In fact he'd probably have to come back tomorrow. He'd Floo-call Hogwarts before he left. Luckily, he had only Sixth and Seventh years this afternoon. They could work under Poppy's nominal supervision.

"Whenever you are. Same team as last time. And Granger, of course. About time she got some field experience."

"Of course? She's Muggle-born!" Snape ignored the quiet huff of protest from behind him.

Rader sat back in his chair with a world-weary air.

"It's been cleared."

Snape shrugged.

"She's your trainee. If you wish to risk losing her at Malfoy's there's nothing for me to say." He leaned forward with black eyes narrowed, adding in a low menacing whisper, "Except that I shall be seriously displeased if I find any anti-Muggle devices remaining."

The other man gave a bark of laughter.

"I've written my will. Granger, tell them he's waiting."

"Yes sir."

Ten minutes later, Snape's team was standing in the vast Malfoy Entrance Hall with its floor of variegated green onyx marble from Pakistan and its walls of pearl-white Italian marble. Two Aurors looked them over briefly then waved them on.

Apart from Hermione there were three experienced Unspeakables in the group, Borodin, Lovatt and Hermione's immediate superior, Waldemar Tigran, plus one just finished training, Ricky Brocklehurst, whom she knew slightly. He'd been a Ravenclaw like his younger sister, Mandy. Hermione had shared a couple of classes with her, but they hadn't been close.

"You'll stay behind me at all times, Granger," Snape ordered, dropping the title for the first time. She stood a little taller at this hint that she was just part of the team, though she frowned at the contraindication of his special instructions. He gave her a hard glare.

"This is no place for Gryffindor recklessness, girl. I'm sure you recall how Malfoys felt about Muggle-borns. They may have left some surprises."

"He told you it was cleared," she grumbled under her breath, but not softly enough.

"Talk back to me again and I'll put you under guard!" he snarled. "I don't share your inflated opinion of Ministry competence."

Remembering all her experiences of Ministry incompetence, she reddened and hung her head.

"Sorry, Professor."

Snape turned away and they fell in behind him. As soon as his back was turned, Ricky winked at her. He was darker than Mandy, with flashing piratical eyes and a hooked nose.

As they went downstairs, he pressed close enough to whisper, with one wary eye on Snape, three steps further down, "He lets you call him Professor? You must be a favourite."

She shook her head with a scowl.

"He called me an insufferable know-it-all all through school and he hasn't changed a bit," she grouched.

He shrugged.

"He's not such a bad old stick if you do as you're told without question. Just very safety-conscious. Recklessness and over-confidence gets him hot under the collar. And there are some very nasty hexes floating around this place."

"Brocklehurst," Snape growled, without turning his head. "If any instruction is necessary I will give it."

"I beg your pardon, Master," Brocklehurst said, with another easy wink at Hermione. He caught her making faces at Snape's back. She blushed fiery red at being seen engaging in such childish behaviour.

They walked down another two marble staircases, though these were smaller and less grand than the first. The painted walls were bare, but rectangular shapes of differently coloured wall indicated that pictures had once hung there. Hermione wondered what they'd done with them.

She hoped they were stored somewhere. Sentient portraits were protected under the same section of Ministry law as ghosts and shades, with exorcism permitted only where ill-will had resulted in malicious damage to wizard-kind. It wouldn't have been right to burn or erase them, as surely the Malfoy forebears hadn't all been Dark Wizards. The pureblood families were too intermingled for such proclivities to remain secret for generations and Lucius would never have had the protection of reputation and influence if Malfoys were known to be dark.

Sometimes it was easier to be Muggle. You could use your old newspapers to wrap your fish 'n chips or your potato peelings without having to first banish all pictures to the newspaper archives. Her mouth watered. She missed fish 'n chips, it was one of those foods wizards didn't seem to eat. She hoped Snape wouldn't make them work through lunch.

Then they reached the dungeons and all thoughts of food vanished. The stone rooms had been stripped bare and scrubbed, but nothing could remove the bloodstains or the smell of despair and death. It was impossible to forget what they'd been used for; the in-depth _Daily Prophet_ reports that had helped send even Narcissa to be Kissed had made ignorance of the gruesome details hard to sustain.

They passed another two Aurors, with no more greeting than a nod, and halted just inside the secret room in a wary knot behind Snape. The ominous-looking silver and copper objects that filled it were dumped casually around the room in no apparent order.

"Ehr'eh teraeh soneicha," Snape intoned, twirling his wand in a complicated and unfamiliar flourish.

So much for his sneers about "foolish wand waving" in his first Potions lesson, Hermione thought with sour amusement. Protective spells couldn't fairly be termed foolish, but she wasn't in the mood to be fair.

Two thirds of the objects in the room began to glow, in shades from lolly pink to deepest red-violet. Hermione gasped and took an involuntary step backward. This didn't look good.

"Protego protegnum," Snape continued in a bored voice, his wand describing a circle of protection around them. "Lovatt and Tigran, you'll work together on the objects I designate. Brocklehurst will observe and assist."

Ricky made a face and whispered to Hermione, "That means fetch and carry."

Snape turned and glared him down in silence before continuing, "Granger, stay in this circle and pay attention," _to me only, his eyes said,_ "Borodin, we'll work together, but keep your eye on Granger till I'm ready for you."

Hermione's lips thinned to an angry, straight line. He glanced at and through her.

"I trust you've not forgotten how to follow instructions."

"I never forget, Professor."

"See that you don't," he snapped and began to move through the room in a clockwise direction, singling out the objects that shone paler and listing appropriate counter-hexes for each as they took notes with an Aeroquill.

Soon the air hung with shimmering, golden names. Hermione had never heard of most of them. She looked imploringly at Taddeo Borodin for an explanation.

"Dark Arts," he shrugged. "Don't teach 'em at Hogwarts, of course. 'S why we need Master Snape for this." His large, mournful eyes, that fit so badly with his round rosy face and button nose, met hers with understanding. "He'll have you joining in, soon as it's safe," he promised. "Didn't he have you brewing from the very first lesson?"

Hermione's eyes widened.

"Yes, he did. Was that unusual?" She'd thought it was standard practice.

" 'S not how I learned. In my day," (he must be at least fifteen years older than her former Potions-master,) "we spent the first year on theory before they ever let us near a cauldron. But his results're so good that Beauxbatons and Durmstrang've followed his lead."

"But it seems so obvious to start on the practical work immediately. We did in other subjects like Transfigurations and Charms."

"Ah. 'S always obvious once someone's thought of it. Didn't seem so obvious to anyone then. But Dumbledore backed him up. Transfiguration and Charms're all about learning to channel your magic through your wand. There's precious little danger and no waste of ingredients – besides you can always transfigure them back. 'N how much do matchsticks and feathers cost anyhow?"

She digested this in silence watching Snape's lean dark figure stride from one unidentified glowing object to another. Had he revolutionised the study of Potions? And he hadn't even wanted to teach it despite being a Master in the subject.

Would her schoolmates have fared better in the war if he'd been allowed to teach them Defence, like everyone knew he'd always wanted to? She'd never questioned Professor Dumbledore's refusal. Surely he had good reason. Besides Snape was a bitter, bad-tempered teacher. No one would have wanted him in the spot.

Yet she'd seen Snape in action at Lockhart's Duelling Club in second year. His first spell had been "Expelliarmus" and, with hindsight, she knew it had been one of the most useful defensive spells she'd ever learnt. He'd demonstrated it so clearly that that single repetition had imprinted it into their minds, despite the fright Malfoy's snake gave them shortly afterwards. The discovery that Harry was a Parseltongue had overshadowed everything else that day, but they'd remembered Expelliarmus well enough to disarm Snape the following year in the Shrieking Shack and it had helped save Harry from Voldemort after the Triwizard Tournament.

She frowned. It must have been bitter for Snape all those years, denied the right to train his students for what he knew was coming and forced to watch lesser teachers frittering away valuable, irreclaimable preparation time on Cornish pixies and Grindylows. Even Remus had concentrated on dark creatures rather than dueling dark wizards.

Ricky was right about the man's safety-consciousness. He was the most protective teacher she'd ever had, always on the lookout for danger, and saving or scolding with equal energy. Perhaps he'd had something more worthwhile than a few harsh words to sulk about. At any rate it had never led him to neglect his duty.

**A/N **"**Ehr'eh teraeh soneicha," is** **my rendition of Hebrew "I will surely reveal your enemies".**

"**Protego protegnum" is just a doubling of the Protego spell. I don't know Latin so have no idea if it's grammatically correct.**

**The ruminations on the history of Potions-teaching are neither supported nor excluded by canon.**


	7. Picnic at Malfoy Manor

PICNIC AT MALFOY MANOR

**Disclaimer: This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling who created and, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and settings elaborated herein.**

**A/N: Spoilers, knowledge assumed. Thanks to all my reviewers. **

**Ricky Brocklehurst is a non-canon character, a co-worker and older brother to canon-character, Mandy Brocklehurst.**

Hermione settled herself more comfortably on Ricky's robes, spread out like a picnic-cloth underneath them, and dipped another chip in the last remnant of her mushy peas. Beside her, long and lean in open-necked shirt and chinos, Ricky leaned back on his elbow, watching her. Scattered around them were the remains of a fish-and chip supper.

It had been a long day. After almost an hour of resentful waiting, she'd been called over to Snape's side and instructed in the more basic decontamination spells. Then she'd cast them as Snape and Borodin simultaneously cast higher-level spells. It was her first practical experience of entangled magics and, by the time Snape dismissed them with a command to meet him in the Entrance Hall tomorrow at 8, she'd been almost too tired to accept Ricky's invitation. Almost.

It was pleasant on the grounds of Malfoy Manor. Most of the park and gardens had been cleared for public use a few months earlier and were now favourite leisure spots for wizard families, though they were mostly deserted by this time of the evening. They had chosen a grassy knoll overlooking a stream, far enough from the trees not to be covered in falling leaves. Hermione took secret pleasure in the irony of enjoying a Muggle meal in what had been one of the last bastions of pureblood power.

"But how could you remember me from Hogwarts?" she asked after finishing her last mouthful. "I was three years lower and in a different house."

Flashing dark eyes laughed at her.

"Hermione, everyone knew who you were by halfway through your first year. Best friends with the Boy-Who-Lived. You three were at the centre of almost everything that happened my last four years of school."

"Not everything," she protested, gathering all the rubbish into one neat pile to Evanesco in one go.

Times like this it was good to be a witch. No litter bins to spoil the view. No scraps of wrappings or festering plastic drink bottles to choke the stream or attract wasps and ants.

"Yes, everything!" he retorted, eyebrows rising in smiling disbelief at her naivety. "Who got attacked by a troll? You! Who got petrified by a basilisk? You! Who got 160 points to catapult Gryffindor from last place to first for something to do with Quirrell and Voldemort, no one knew exactly what? You three!"

"Neville got ten of those points," she cut in.

A tanned well-kept hand waved that away.

"Ten points for trying to stop you. You three were the ones doing – whatever it was you were doing."

She shrugged.

"Keeping Quirrell away from the Philosopher's Stone because he had Voldemort living on the back of his head. That's why the turban. Anyway, Harry was the only one to see that. Ron and I didn't get that far."

"See what I mean? And you probably went there on purpose. How long had you been on his trail?"

Hermione blushed and looked away. Maybe she'd been in too much of a hurry to dispose of their scraps. There was nothing to fidget with. She picked three long stems of grass and began braiding them.

"He tried to steal the Stone from Gringotts before school started. We knew all year that something was up." Although she hadn't been included till they'd become friends. "But we weren't on his trail at all." She hung her head. "We thought Professor Snape was the villain." And didn't that sound silly now?

Ricky burst out laughing. Hermione stared at the grass she was braiding, her cheeks getting redder and redder.

"Well you would, wouldn't you?" he choked after several minutes. "He dresses up like a pantomime villain, all scowling and long black robes and swooping around the corridors at night. All he needed was a moustache to twirl."

She glanced at him and her lips twitched into a relieved smile. Then it wasn't her he was laughing at. She changed the subject anyhow.

"Do wizard-children go to pantomimes? I thought that was a Muggle thing."

"Only the moustaches." He was still grinning. "I learnt about them in Muggle Studies. Fourth year, I think; I did a special project. But pantomimes are a traditional Yule treat for us too."

"I only did one year of Muggle Studies. My workload was just too big to continue."

"I'm not surprised. Everyone knew you practically lived in the library. But tell me more about your Snape adventures. Did you trail around after him every night? Most first years would have found that scarier than facing Voldemort."

"We didn't dare," she admitted. "It was the troll on Halloween that first made us really suspect him. Quirrell summoned it to distract the other teachers so he could have a go at the Stone, but Professor Snape wasn't fooled. Only he got bitten by Fluffy and we noticed him limping –"

"Hang on. Who's Fluffy?"

"The first line of defense. Remember Professor Dumbledore at the Sorting Feast, threatening anyone who went to the third floor corridor with a painful death? He was a three-headed Cerberus."

"Fluffy?" He gave another shout of laughter. It was very infectious. "Who on earth would call a Cerberus Fluffy?"

"Hagrid of course," she said when she stopped chuckling. "Didn't you ever study Care of Magical Creatures?"

"Not with him. We had Professor Kettleburn and I dropped it after my O.W.L.s. I remember though, Mandy used to complain about Hagrid's lessons – hippogriffs and blasted scoots or something."

"Blast-ended skrewts. They were – pretty horrid." She'd been about to say "something he'd bred himself" but changed in mid-sentence. That had been illegal. For all that Hagrid was a decorated war-hero from the final battle and had gone off to live at Beauxbatons with Madame Maxime, there was no telling but it might still cause him trouble if it ever came out.

"Everything you studied with him was pretty horrid, from what I heard. Except flobberworms. At least they couldn't hurt you."

"He does know an awful lot about magical creatures," Hermione defended. Too bad he liked the flame-breathing man-eating types best.

Ricky raised a lazy eyebrow.

"Why flobberworms anyway?"

"That was Malfoy's fault. He provoked the hippogriff into slashing him and then whined to his dad to get Hagrid sacked."

"But still, flobberworms! Catch Snape changing a lesson for fear of anyone!"

Hermione frowned. Not likely. If someone had tried to pressure him, he'd have made them do more dangerous potions, not less. She dumped her grass braid and sat up straighter.

"You sound as if you admired him," she grumbled.

Ricky sat up too, smiling apologetically.

"Is that the ultimate crime? Sorry, I can't help it. Not after that first amazing lesson." His eyes glowed with remembered enthusiasm. " He swept in and everything went quiet. Then he told us he could teach us to brew fame, bottle glory or put a stopper in death - if we weren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as he normally taught. We decided instantly to do anything rather than have him think us dunderheads. And then he gave an impromptu quiz to make sure we'd remember that he expected us always to come prepared."

Hermione scowled.

"We got the same speech -"

"Why meddle with perfection? He was brilliant!"

"He used the quiz to humiliate us. Harry for not knowing the answers and me for knowing." She stared at the ground, biting her lower lip. Was she mad? Arguing about Snape, of all people, with the best-looking guy she'd met since school? No wonder she had no love-life.

"But didn't it get better after that? I always thought you were rather a favourite."

"Me?" she burst out. "What gave you that idea?"

Ricky reached over for her hand and started playing with her fingers. She gave him a sideways glance under her lashes. He was still smiling at her. She felt suddenly breathless.

"He mentioned you once. At least I think it was you, he didn't say a name."

She gulped.

"What – what did he say?"

"It must have been during our O.W.L. year, because it was just after the third attack. We'd had a really bad lesson, most of the Hufflepuffs were crying because one of their own was frozen, and we were all terrified because what could do that to a ghost? After the third melted cauldron, he got furious. He said one of his second years could brew better than us and he'd be strongly tempted to make us watch her do it if -"

He stopped abruptly, folding his lips with an absurd look of guilt in his eyes. She leaned a little closer.

"If?"

"Hmm." His face was flushed and his eyes darted around for inspiration. "Ahh, well, umm, if she wasn't – too sure of herself already."

She ought to feel insulted that he'd identified her as the girl in question – for sure Snape hadn't used such polite language – but she wanted to giggle. He was such a bad liar. Besides, he was still holding her hand.

"Sure of herself?" she probed mischievously. "Was that what he said? Not know-it-all or insufferable or conceited?"

"I don't think you're insufferable or conceited,' he said quickly, with an anxious gaze in her eyes. "Anyway, you did know it all, didn't you? It's not an insult."

"It was, the way he always said it," she huffed. "What made you think it was me then?"

He tickled her arm. She batted his hand away, giving him a mock stern look. Let him wriggle his way out of this one.

"Mandy said it must have been you. Because it wasn't anyone in Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff she could think of and she knew you and Malfoy were the only ones to beat her in the first year exams. Besides, you were every teacher's prize pupil, weren't you?"

She blushed.

"Was I?"

He raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

"Don't say you didn't know."

"He never let me answer in class. I'd always have my hand up and he'd always pass me over."

"Of course he did. He wanted to test people's knowledge; he already knew you knew." He squeezed her hand.

"I don't think it was that," she declared. "He just hated Gryffindors, that's all."

Ricky shrugged.

"I wouldn't know. We were always paired with Hufflepuffs for Potions in the junior classes. But it figures, I guess. What's the hallmark of being in your house?"

"Courage. The Hat always called us brave."

He shook his head.

"Not so much courage as bravado. The Hat said brave and bold, which is another way of saying that you rush into danger without planning ahead. And that's the last kind of behaviour he'd want to encourage – in class or anywhere."

She frowned. That didn't sound very complimentary. Although the more she thought about it the more she had to admit its truth. And put like that, it made a lot of sense.

He ducked his head and gave a crooked smile.

"Potions requires patience, precision and careful preparation. That's why Gryffindors generally do so badly in it. It wasn't him; it was you lot."

"He should have changed his methods to suit us," she muttered.

"Didn't we agree before that opposition just makes him more stubborn? The more you rebelled, the harder he'd clamp down."

"It was more than that."

He shrugged.

"Well your class did put a stop to a seven year run of Slytherin success. And it was you and your friends that kept snatching theCup away every time. The rest of us never had a look-in."

"He probably just cheated to make them win. He took points from all the other houses except his own."

"If you say so," he allowed. "Like I said, we never shared a potions class with them and class is where the points mostly come and go – unless you get caught snogging or wandering the corridors or hexing each other. I don't remember him ever taking points from me."

On the word snogging, his eyes had dropped to her lips and lingered there. She held her breath. His Adams apple bobbed a few times, but he didn't make a move towards her.

The silence was becoming uncomfortable. She couldn't think of anything to say. She licked her lips nervously and heard him catch his breath.

"So I guess you like working with him now," she squeaked.

Ricky gave her a rueful smile.

"Don't you think we've talked about him long enough? There's someone here with me right now that I like a whole lot better. If that's all right with you?"

It was. It definitely was.


	8. An Unscratchable Itch

AN UNSCRATCHABLE ITCH

**Disclaimer: This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling who created and, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and settings elaborated herein.**

**A/N: Spoilers, knowledge assumed. Thanks to all my reviewers.**

It was only the first Saturday in December, but Diagon Alley was already crowded with holiday shoppers. Awnings and shop-fronts had been transfigured to red and green, a seasonal combination of Gryffindor and Slytherin colours that always made him wince, and sprays of holly were strategically placed near sprigs of ivy on store displays. It looked disgustingly Muggle, a testament to how much the Wizarding World had already changed. Just one more thing to get used to.

Professor Snape stood scowling in Flourish and Blotts waiting for an attendant. He'd had _Cauldrons and Cuneiform, Potions in Ancient History_ on back-order for almost a year and the notification of its availability was the first thing all week to cheer him.

There were too many Gryffindors on staff at Hogwarts. Charlie Weasley, replacing Hagrid for a three-year stint, was the least annoying of his brothers and Amory Marchant, a smiling bearded wizard in his sixties, was the first DADA teacher in a decade to be tolerable, but they did tend to gang up with Minerva and Dumbledore in the staffroom. Did they really need a Valentine's Day Ball for students and alumni next year?

The surprise proposal was only slightly mitigated by the surprise announcement that accompanied it. The end of an era had come. The headmaster was planning to retire at the end of the school year to concentrate on his long-abandoned alchemical research. Though he'd strongly supported Dumbledore in all endeavours, both school-related and extra-curricular, for almost eighteen years, he wouldn't be sorry to see him go. Respect had never become friendship; their working relationship had always remained just that. Perhaps he'd even have rejoiced if not for the niggling worry of whom the Board would choose to replace him, Minerva or a probably less bearable stranger.

Black eyes narrowed to slits and thin lips tightened as he scanned the overcrowded shop. He'd forgotten it would be like this so close to Yule. He rarely came to Diagon Alley except for his quarterly restocking of Potions shelves, the only necessities he preferred to select personally rather than Owl-Ordering, and his visits to Gringotts were usually timed to coincide. Other than that he despised shopping and found the false bonhomie of pub and eatery even more insupportable.

"Professor?" From behind him came a female voice, shrill with surprise.

He closed and opened his eyes again. Not her. Not that irritating girl who lodged like an unscratchable itch in his brain after every meeting. It was nine and a half weeks since he'd last seen her during that two-day decontamination operation at Malfoy Manor. He felt again that heaviness in his gut at the memory of how she'd smiled at him so welcomingly, so artlessly.

Foolish girl, to yearn still for his approval. Trusting, guileless, open-hearted child, to imagine his unpleasantness a mask as skin-deep as his looks. Of course he wasn't nice deep down, any more than he'd ever been handsome. Nice people didn't become Death Eaters; at any rate, not by choice. And if they were forced, through their own cowardice or by threats to their family or close friends, they didn't retain their amiability long. Naïve, little, know-it-all, know-nothing innocent, hankering to know him better; if she knew him better she wouldn't want to know him at all.

(That would hurt. No, it wouldn't, why should it? He didn't even like her. She was just a bossy, bratty acquaintance, unbreakable but so easily bruised - so vulnerable yet so strong underneath – such a little Gryffindor. He scowled.)

It had suited the Ministry to name him one of the heroes of the war and he'd acquiesced willingly. Better to spend the rest of his life venerated than vilified, he'd thought, but veneration undeserved was at best an uncomfortable pleasure. What was twenty years work of undoing what he'd helped create? One hundred and twenty years wouldn't be enough.

It had been a mistake to let her so close, to forgive her youth and offer a fresh start to their acquaintance. She'd always been too inclined to paint him in pastels instead of shades. He'd had to put a stop to it that day at the Ministry and return the world to balance, snub her as ruthlessly as he'd done through seven years of her schooling.

The words had come instinctually. He'd even been slightly angry with her for forcing him to say them. He'd never pretended to be other than he was, a sour, sarcastic, retired killer. He'd told her as much that day in his office.

"Alingsworth said you wouldn't hurt a fly," she'd teased and he'd been uncompromisingly frank in his reply.

"I hurt many hundreds in my teens till I graduated to human victims."

She couldn't pretend she hadn't known – but she hadn't known, not really. Hearsay was never the same as experience and what she could forgive or overlook in a confession would have scarred her forever in the living of it. Apart from the final battle, she'd been shielded from the worst. She'd lost no family or close friends, only companions – and she hadn't had to watch them die. She'd seen no torture, no slow breaking of one person to another's will, no using of slave according to owner's whim. Attrition, battle and its aftermath, those were all she knew and he couldn't, didn't, wish she knew more.

He sighed. Seven years his student and so much he'd never taught her, even of the knowledge he'd been willing to transmit. In his pedagogic role, he'd forsaken hearsay for experience. That hadn't been enough either. He'd shown, he'd prompted, he'd guided, but apparently some things needed to be said to be understood. He wouldn't make that mistake again, he'd decided.

The next day, he'd watched her through secretive slitted eyes, watched every glance, every smile, every silent comment she shared with the younger, prettier, pleasanter version of himself he'd pushed her towards. The heaviness was back worse than before, but he accepted it as his due. So young, the pair of them; he'd never been that young, that clean. This was right and all that was left was to rectify his oversight of nine years ago, by telling the next young Miss or Mr. Granger-clone what he should have told the original; what he would tell them all from now on.

He'd begun the next day with a timid first year Hufflepuff. She was Muggle-born too, though otherwise not at all like her counterpart but for the ever-waving hand and ever-ready mouth; she was too tall, too thin, too blond, yet if he closed his eyes he could see in her that bushy, brown head bent still over her work. Ridiculous! As if he'd close his eyes during a lesson, that would positively invite disaster! He'd detained the child after class nevertheless. If a month of lessons hadn't taught her, then it was long past time he spoke.

"What do you imagine is my purpose in asking questions in class, Miss Hernlicote?" he'd sneered as she twisted her sweaty hands beside his desk.

She'd gulped and trembled and finally squeaked, "To see who knows the answer, sir?"

No, not like the original at all. Miss Granger had always had more backbone. Still his eyes had darkened and his voice lowered to a menacing whisper.

"I'm perfectly capable of assessing that from your classwork and homework."

Her mouth had worked and her lip had trembled as she breathed, "Oh."

"Perhaps you suppose it's intended to give students a chance to show off?"

She'd blushed fierily at that, head low, shoulders hunched.

"No sir."

"Perhaps you think it's merely an excuse to award or deduct points?"

He'd watched her jump, glance at him and quickly away. She hadn't dared to agree, though he'd read belief in her eyes. He'd leaned forward, a nasty smirk curling his lips as she shook.

"If you'd use the brains you seem to believe you possess you'd find it obvious. The fear of being publicly examined reminds lazy and inattentive students to come prepared. They are thus less likely to endanger themselves and their neighbours by their incompetence. Are you an inattentive student, Miss Hernlicote?"

"No sir," she'd whispered.

"Then I trust I won't have to raise this issue with you again. That's all."

He'd waved her out and turned to his never-ending pile of assignments to be marked; the inevitable result of pushing his students to their utmost. This little girl wouldn't grow up yearning for his approval. She'd know better.

"Professor?" The voice sounded puzzled now. He hadn't realised his thoughts had preoccupied him so long. He turned around to see it was indeed she – and she was alone. What did that mean?

"Miss Granger," he drawled, looking her over. She hadn't changed; bright eyes, rosy cheeks, wild, brown hair as irrepressible as herself. "Still living at second-hand through your books?"

She laughed. Unbidden, the corner of his mouth twitched in response.

"You can't talk," she retorted. "Still keeping the world at a distance, still stuck in your corner of the dungeons. Don't you ever even go out to see the sky or are you content with looking up at the ceiling during mealtimes?" The Great Hall was be-spelled to show the sky overhead.

"I live the life I've chosen," he answered. 'Not the life I wanted, nor the life I would choose if I could undo the past,' he acknowledged to himself, 'but my choice nonetheless.' "Do you find the sky so absorbing because you have nothing else to look at?"

"I have a boyfriend, if that's what you mean." Her eyebrows arched a question at him, was he still alone? His chin lifted and he looked down his large nose at her.

'I dare you to ask,' his eyes said.

She wasn't afraid but she didn't hold on to grudges either. Or perhaps he was no longer important enough in her life to anger her.

"Ricky said he couldn't buy me a present while I looked on, so he's meeting me here in a minute," she told him.

"He's not buying you a book?" That was unexpected. Obviously, the boy was more perceptive than he'd realised.

"Everyone always buys me books," she explained. "I do like to read, but it's nice to have someone who knows there's more to me than that."

It was his turn to let his eyes ask the question. It wouldn't do to admit he'd known that already. She smiled and something in his chest lurched.

"Just about anything except Quidditch," she said. "And you, Professor? Are you doing your holiday shopping too?"

"I don't need to shop for presents. I find my colleagues are always perfectly satisfied with the same gift each year, three vials each of a special potion of my own brewing."

"Dare I ask?"

'You'd dare more than that,' he thought. 'You've faced poison, basilisk, Death Eaters and me at my most overbearing – and I've yet to see you quail.'

"The only pleasant-tasting hangover and indigestion cure ever invented," he said instead. "The recipe is a well-kept Potions-Master secret, but it's not overly difficult to brew if rather tedious."

"Three vials each? The same amount for everyone?" Her brain never stopped.

"Those who need more barter with those who need less. I stay out of that side of it."

She looked past him. He knew by the brightness of her smile that the boy, her boy, had arrived.

"Brocklehurst," he greeted without turning. "Shall I send your regards to your Head of House?"

"Thank you Master. How is Professor Flitwick?" The boy's arm slid familiarly around the girl's waist and she shifted a little closer.

Twenty years of spying on people whose favourite recreation was torture had given the older man the ability to see any unwelcome sight without wincing. He did not therefore wince.

"Muggle manners," he murmured, raising a disdainful eyebrow. "You told me once, Miss Granger, that you'd never belonged in that world."

She blushed, but didn't move. Her boyfriend frowned and pulled her a little closer.

"I didn't and I don't." She shrugged. "Yet there are some customs I find worth bringing with me." Her eyes lit up in a mischievous smile. "You told me to take control of my own life," she reminded him.

"And you always follow my advice, don't you?" he sniped. "No doubt we shall meet again quite soon enough for any of us," he added as he moved away to direct the elder Shunpike boy to fetch his book.

"Whew, I think he froze me solid," Ricky quipped, watching him leave. "He hasn't changed much, has he?"

"I thought you liked him," Hermione teased.

"Not as much as I like you, love. I haven't changed either."

Returning to the school, chilled and tight-lipped, Snape took his new book to his rooms before going to dinner. As he swept past a group of giggling Hufflepuffs in the corridor he saw that one of them had done something to her hair, a Muggle perm she was explaining to her friends. It stood out in an aureole around her head, still blond but now quite bushy.

"Five points from Hufflepuff," he snarled. "Brush your hair, Miss Hernlicote, you look as if you've been dragged backward through a hedge."

Some things needed to be said to be understood. Other things just needed to be said whether they were understood or not.


	9. Ridiculous ideas

RIDICULOUS IDEAS

**This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling who, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and situations elaborated herein.**

**A/N: Spoilers. Thanks to all my reviewers.**

A Valentine's Day Ball! Of all the ridiculous ideas Dumbledore had ever come up with, from hiring Lockhart to reinstating the Triwizard Tournament just in time for Voldemort's resurrection, this was – pretty standard really. Only made worse by the invitation to alumni to return for the occasion. What a relief it would be when the man's whimsy was replaced with Minerva's common sense.

Snape's lip curled as he surveyed the overcrowded Great Hall. Even with an expansion spell, it wasn't large enough for everyone and small knots of people spilled in and out of the doors constantly. His head was pounding in rhythm with the cacophony of wailing songs, tapping feet and shouted conversations. Then that girl, that exasperating, inescapable girl, came in with her tall Ravenclaw and her rowdy raucous group of friends. She saw him almost immediately and lifted her arm in a smiling half-wave. He was mercifully close to the secret teachers' exit. He scowled in reply and swept out of the room.

Hermione's mouth twisted into a rueful smile. 'Snape's hating this,' she thought, 'poor old grump.' He still loomed larger over her school-day memories than any other teacher, but his temper no longer had the power to hurt. Ricky had helped her see him in proper perspective, diminished to ordinary humanity. He wasn't the overpowering and overblown Arbiter of Everything she'd wanted to impress, but just a meticulous, conscientious and joyless teacher, simultaneously admirable and detestable, a bad-tempered, bitter-tongued, burdened man.

His tongue had been as barbed as ever at their last meeting, but what a feeling of exhilarating release it had been to catch the barbs one-handed and throw them back at him. After the first few exchanges, he'd been eager to get away. Judging by Charlie's letters to Ginny, he'd already known about this ball when he made that crack about meeting sooner than they'd wish – though their meetings were always too soon for him.

She'd stay out of his way then. Let him go sulk in the gardens, decapitating rose bushes and disturbing young lovers. There were plenty of people who did want to see her: Harry and Hannah, Ron and Susan, Ginny and Neville, Luna, Colin, Zacharias, professors like McGonagall, Flitwick, Vector, Charlie and of course Ricky's friend Roger Davies, who'd replaced Madam Hooch as flying instructor after her death in the final battle.

"Miserable, greasy git," said Ron, who'd seen Snape's reaction to her greeting. "You know, I bet he was just like Malfoy when he was at school. Always flapping his mouth and bullying people."

"It was the other way around actually," Harry said unexpectedly. "My dad and his friends used to bully him. Four against one half the time."

"How d'you know?" Ginny rasped. Her voice was improving, they no longer had to lean closer to hear her, but it was still rough and unpleasing. Neville's hand slid into hers and she leaned against his shoulder.

"Saw it in his memories," Harry muttered. He hadn't told them about his snooping at the time and there was no need to mention it now, but Ron's unconcealed rancour against Snape got on his nerves sometimes. Sure he'd been a horror of a teacher, but they couldn't have beaten Voldie without him. Give it a rest already. "And then I asked Remus and he said it was true."

"True? Four against one? I'd never have thought Remus would -"

"Mainly my dad and Sirius," Harry interrupted Hermione. "Wormtail cheered them on and Remus mostly just watched and never said anything. Like in the Shrieking Shack, remember? And those times when Sirius called him Snivellus in front of us and Remus didn't bat an eye."

"Snivellus!" Ron laughed. "I'd forgotten that. Funny name though. I mean, Snape? Can't believe he ever cried in his life, he wouldn't know how."

"He was a kid once too, Ron," Hermione reproved him, casting a glance back in the direction where her teacher had stood. "Maybe as he got older he learned to turn tears into anger. Maybe that's why he was so explosive all the time."

"Crybaby Snape," Ron guffawed. "I like that."

"Must we always talk about Snape?" Ricky said impatiently, looking down at her. "Sometimes I wonder if the only reason you like me is that I look like him."

Hermione's friends all looked at the floor or sidelong at each other, waiting for the explosion. That must be some kind of joke, right? Ricky couldn't really think Hermione had ever crushed on Snape, could he? Scarlet-faced and glaring, she wrenched herself out of Ricky's arm that had been around her waist and turned on him.

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped. "Of course you don't look like him."

Zacharias looked him over and disagreed with his usual malicious tactlessness. He never could resist annoying people.

"He does though. Same beanpole shape, same dark eyes and hair and he even has a hook in his nose. Come to think of it all your boyfriends have looked like Snape. What about Krum at the Triwizard?"

"What about Ron?" Hermione demanded. "He doesn't look like Snape."

"I should hope not!" Ron bellowed.

"He's the exception that proves the rule," Zacharias argued, "though if you broke his nose twenty times and dyed his hair -"

"He'd still never look like Snape," Hannah said firmly. "One of these days your mouth is going to get you in trouble you can't smirk your way out of. Then maybe someone will break your nose twenty times."

There was a general roar of laughter, but Hermione was still fuming.

"That better have been a joke, Richard Alberic Brocklehurst," she threatened. "As if I'd ever think of Snape like that. He's twenty years older than me, for goodness sake!"

More sidelong glances were exchanged. This was not the time to point out the age difference between Tonks and Kingsley Shacklebolt or other oddly age-assorted couples they knew.

Ricky smiled into Hermione's eyes and she couldn't resist smiling back.

"Sorry love, I didn't mean it. Just me being silly. Come and dance, OK?"

She let herself be pulled away. Ron turned to Harry.

"How does he do that? She used to nag at us for months whenever we teased her and he gives her one smile –"

"It must be lurve," Ginny said cheerfully.

After two of the first five couples Snape separated proved to be alumni, he left the rose garden for the lake, not stopping till he'd gone halfway around and left everyone behind. Head bent and teeth clenched, he stared at the ripple of small waves and splashes radiating from its centre. He had about as much chance of ever finding a partner as the giant squid. He'd given up on all that twenty years ago at the start of his spying career.

Faint swish of feet through long grass behind him. He turned, scowling, to find the Defence teacher standing nearby. He didn't mind Marchant in general, his avoidance of personal discussions was preferable to the pushy over-friendliness of previous incumbents, but he didn't want to talk to him tonight.

"I prefer to be alone," he growled at his grey-bearded colleague.

Calm hazel eyes met his unwelcoming glare.

"Don't mind me. I'm sure you can be alone as easily with me as without me," Marchant returned.

Coal-black eyes narrowed and thin lips tightened to a grim straight line as Snape wondered for the first time what was hidden behind the other's cool reserve. Why had the man come to find him in this isolated spot? His hand closed around his wand.

"Why did you follow me?"

A grey head balding at the temples dipped and straightened as Marchant's lips folded, refolded, and then opened in quiet confession.

"I had a wife and a daughter once. They were killed in the First Rising. I came home to find the Dark Mark floating over my house."

Snape's dark eyes flashed a challenge. Was that an accusation or perhaps a prelude to an assassination attempt? If so Snape would be quick to teach him that, retired spy-cum-Death Eater or not, he hadn't gone soft or forgotten his hard-learnt skills.

"Why did you follow me?" he asked again through gritted teeth.

The answer came in a soft, reflective voice.

"There's something I've wanted to tell you and I thought it should be said on neutral ground."

"Well?" the younger man bit off, chin lifted so that his greasy black hair streamed behind him.

Marchant watched in silence, expressions flickering over his mild, pleasant face as he considered his words. Then he squared his shoulders and took a step forward, keeping his hands open and away from his wand. He licked his lips and sucked them in, then released them.

"I forgive you," he said.

"You – What?"

Snape's wand hand wavered and fell. He took an involuntary step back, gulping and staring. Nobody had ever forgiven him, in words or in thoughts, and he'd never asked or expected it. He didn't deserve it.

"I forgive you." Marchant's voice shifted into the broader, deeper cadences of formality. "Severus Snape, I forgive you. Freely and fully, without coercion or reservation. For what you did willingly, for what you did unwillingly, for what you watched and didn't stop, for what you saw and couldn't stop. For knowledge, thought, word, deed and intention." He paused touching his right hand to his heart then slowly extending it. "And this do I swear," he added in an even more deliberate tone, "friendship and faith between me and mine and thee and thine forever."

Snape gawped at him in silence. He took another step back, shaking his head to clear it. His eyes dropped to that patient outstretched hand, then returned to the open honest eyes. He didn't believe it. It must be some kind of trick. A spasm of rage shook him. How dare he mock?

"Legilimens," he murmured and fell into the other's mind. A long moment he walked there, seeing the bodies, the grief, the long painful years of recovery, all leading to this moment. Then he breathed a heavy shuddering breath and pulled his mind away. Still the older man waited, hand and eyes steady.

Snape swallowed several times, blinking at the grass beneath their feet. The blood was roaring in his ears and his chest ached like an abscessed tooth. A Wizard's Oath, a vow of friendship from one of Voldemort's victims? It was too bizarre to be real. Amidst the disbelief was a strong feeling of shame at having doubted this open-hearted man, at having answered his gift by violating his mind. He shouldn't accept – but he couldn't refuse.

"This do I swear," he murmured, reaching out to clasp the offered hand. They both briefly glowed as the Wizard's Oath activated, then they released each other. He stared at their two hands, separate now and showing no sign of what they had just done.

An apology was owing. He couldn't bring himself to say the rusty, unfamiliar words.

"I needed to be sure what I was swearing to this time," he muttered at last.

The grey head nodded.

"Was that how they tricked you into service before?"

Snape looked up and then down again, still half-believing he was caught in a dream. He could say anything now, it wouldn't matter.

"I wasn't tricked, not entirely. I'd like to think I'd have drawn back if I'd understood what I was committing myself to do, but I don't know." He grimaced and confessed, "I was so angry."

"You're still angry."

Snape took another long ragged breath, hands clenching and unclenching.

"I've been angry so long, I don't know how to stop."

"You had strong reasons and your anger has prompted you to many worthy actions, but anger is not a right or a privilege, it's a burden. One you can choose to let drop." Marchant's voice was as clear and unabashed as a church bell.

Snape closed his eyes and opened them again. He'd seen the man's history.

"As you did."

"Yes. I was angry for a long time, for decades," the older man murmured. "Anger replaced my family. It drove me and filled me till I thought I needed it to live. And when I let it go I was empty and dead for years. But I've learned to function without it."

Reality was returning and with it guilt, shame and mistrust. Snape turned away and stared at his hands.

"I'm not you," he snarled.

"You don't need to be."

"I told you I prefer to be alone."

"I'll leave you then. But, Severus, you'll never be quite alone again."

Snape's shoulders hunched and his head bent low as he watched the other man walk back to the castle. The grass was flattened where the man had stood, footprints clearly evident. It wasn't a dream – or a nightmare. Out of the blue, that private man, who'd sat beside him for a year and a half without revealing anything of note, had stripped them both bare and sworn him to an oath of everlasting friendship, had – forgiven him?

Marchant couldn't speak for other victims, he couldn't even speak for his wife and child. He was just a random victim of the war, possibly not even someone Snape had personally wronged. It didn't make sense that he could offer forgiveness, in his own name or in anyone's – and yet something had changed tonight. Black eyes shone wetly and closed. Something had changed.

**A/N We're about halfway now. I hope you're enjoying the ride.**


	10. A Sleeping Dragon

A SLEEPING DRAGON

**This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling who, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and situations elaborated herein.**

**A/N: Spoilers. ****Thanks to all my reviewers. **

"Here are the first years," Charlie Weasley smiled, gesturing at a jostling noisy crowd of eleven-year-olds.

Snape nodded and let his eyes roam slowly over the new students. No Weasleys, save the cheerful Care of Magical Creatures professor who stood before him. For the second glorious year, no Potters, Grangers, Longbottoms or Lovegoods. That was a good start though doubtless this group would contain some that were almost as aggravating.

"Settle down," his icy whisper cut through the chatter. "I am Professor Snape, Deputy Headmaster, Potions-Master and Head of Slytherin."

"From the cards?" one tremulous voice piped up.

Snape was number three in the _Special Edition; Voldemort's Vanquishers_ white chocolate set, behind Potter and Dumbledore of course. Apparently, they were outselling regular Chocolate Frogs three to two and looked set to be a permanent addition to the range. That wasn't the sort of fame he'd wished for.

He scowled at the freckle-faced brunette until she bit her lip and lowered her head. It took about a second; the girl would probably be a Gryffindor, he thought sourly. A Hufflepuff would have dropped her eyes immediately; a Ravenclaw would have made a quiet comment to a neighbour instead of a public announcement while a Slytherin would have scorned to act impressed unless she knew he was amenable to flattery.

"Silence!" he hissed. "I will brook no interruptions. You will wait here until I return for you. Each of you will shortly be sorted into your house and take your seat at the appropriate table. Then the Sorting Feast will begin. Hogwarts has four houses, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. Four houses, four elements, four seasons –" he paused. "Four corners of the world, four points of a compass; is it possible to do without any one of them?" Slytherin would not be reviled for the misdeeds of some of its past members, not if he could help it.

"Within these walls, your housemates will be your new family, with whom you will share classes, dormitories and common rooms. You will earn or lose house points according to your behaviour, deportment –" His eyes rested meaningly on smudged faces and crumpled robes; the more alert began to straighten themselves immediately and nudge their slower neighbours. "And achievements. At the end of each year, the House Cup is awarded to the house with the most points. See that you do your best to make it your own."

He whirled around, letting his cloak swirl behind him, and entered the Great Hall. From her seat of honour as the new Headmistress, Minerva nodded at him. He nodded back and returned to the waiting first years.

"Come," he told them. "When I call your name, sit on the stool and place the hat on your head. All eyes will be upon you so carry yourselves well."

He waited with his charges through the Sorting Hat's usual inane ditty.

_This school was founded by four friends,  
__Together, yet apart.  
__Each house reflects its founder,  
__Each banner tells their heart._

"_Gryffindor's ground is red as fire,  
__His deeds both brave and bold,  
__A reckless roaring lion  
__Whose heart grows never cold."_

Snape gave an inward snort. That empty-headed old rag was as one-eyed as if it was Godric himself singing and not just his antiquated headgear. A more accurate line would have been "Hearts too bold and brave … that haste them to their grave".

_As changeable as water,  
__The green of Slytherin,  
__The cunning of the serpent  
__That sheds each year its skin._

The snort became a sneer. Typical Gryffindor mentality to turn Slytherin's greatest assets, cool reflection and the capacity to grow and change, into defects! He wondered, as he always did at the Welcoming feast, why Salazar had ceded the sorting into Godric's control. At least the school motto was pure Slytherin. Never tickle a sleeping dragon; there was sound sense in that proposition and it was as far from the Gryffindor mentality as one could well go.

_A yellow field for Hufflepuff,  
__The bounteous, generous soil,  
__As patient as the badger,  
__As unafraid of toil._

That was fair comment, at any rate. The quiet house was as necessary and under-appreciated as the ground they walked over, the earth that fed them.

_And banner blue for Ravenclaw,  
__The rushing air and sky,  
__Far-seeing as the eagle,  
__Their questing thoughts as high._

Which is to say, he interpreted to himself, that their focus on abstract thought is as insubstantial and seemingly pointless as the air – and as vital as breathing.

_So put me on. I'll tell you  
__Where your head says you belong,  
__Then once again, I'll wait in peace  
__Till it's time for next year's song._

Hundreds of cheerful voices resumed their chattering. Snape raised his chin and let his cold black eyes roam the entire room, quieting every student they fell on. When the rumble died to a whisper, he pulled the list of names from his pocket and began.

"Ackersley, Leda." A willowy girl with long dark braids detached herself from two giggly friends and took her place on the stool. The Hat took its time.

"Slytherin."

"Asprey, Roland." A rosy-cheeked ragamuffin with yellow curls this time. As soon as the Hat touched his head it yelled its decision.

"Gryffindor."

It was different standing here instead of sitting at the High Table through the process; for one thing, there was no one to compare predictions with. Finally the last child "Yelen, Maryanna" was sorted into Hufflepuff and he was free to take his seat by Minerva.

"How many years did you endure that?" he muttered.

"Too many," she answered before rising to give the traditional speech. Once that was over and the tables loaded with food, the gossip could begin.

"What's the latest from Ricky?" Octavia Vector asked her nearest neighbour as he served himself some steak and kidney pie. "Are they together?"

Roger Davies frowned and sighed.

"Luna says it's off again. For good this time she thinks."

"No chance of a reconciliation?" Octavia piled five sausages on top of her plateful of mashed potato and gravy.

"I guess there's always a chance," he shrugged, spearing a steamed carrot and inspecting it as he spoke, "but Luna thinks not. Pity. I rather liked Hermione and she's certainly been helpful with straightening out our situation. She did a lot of the research, you know, for those Quibbler articles that helped change the rules."

It was about time that Hogwarts allowed staff to marry and live on the premises or even for those without house responsibilities to share cottages in Hogsmeade with their spouses. Apparently, in the Muggle world this had been the norm for some decades. Trust Hermione Granger to know that. In fact, trust her to know just about anything on any topic. She was just as much a collector of knowledge as school legend had always described her.

He'd married Luna in a handfasting almost a month ago, but she wasn't at the feast tonight as she'd preferred the outside accommodation option. Her father had handed her control of the magazine while he took an extended fact-finding trip looking for Mongolian Blue-tongued Kappas and she didn't care to make the trek out from the school to the nearest Apparition point every morning. The convenience of Hogsmeade living made up for missing some meals together. As Flying Instructor, Roger wasn't obligated to turn up to the Great Hall every day.

"Ginny told me the same," Charlie added, taking the pie plate from Roger's hand. "She thinks Hermione is quite resolved against him now and she's pretty determined. Once she makes up her mind, she doesn't easily change it."

He was too tactful to elaborate further. Ricky was Roger's best friend and had stood as witness at his handfasting. Better not bring up his jealous rages every time Hermione spoke to or about another man.

Ginny, flitting in and out of London for her job of Third Junior Undersecretary for the Minister of International Relations, was a frequent and copious correspondent and had been ever since the age of twelve. She said it was because she knew where he kept his brain. In her last letter, she'd written that the first hint of trouble had been at the Valentine's Day Ball over six months ago, but it had sounded so ridiculous and blown over so quickly no one had worried at the time. How could Ricky be jealous of Snape, of all people, who'd never looked at a Gryffindor except to find fault, Ginny asked?

Unfortunately, Octavia had heard rumours and her sense of humour tended to be unsubtle and rollicking. She leant forward to talk across the table.

"What do you say, Snape?" she cackled. "Care for a crack, now young Hermione has cut loose? Rather a pretty girl she turned out to be, didn't she?"

Snape didn't look up from the chops he was cutting. She elbowed Roger, who winced and inched his chair away, and asked again.

"Eh, Snape? Hermione Granger's heart is broken. Who should patch it up again?"

The Deputy Head gave her a blistering black-eyed glare.

"The romantic problems of my ex-students leave me quite unmoved," he snarled. "No doubt she'll find another dupe soon enough."

The other professors were used to his sour demeanour and quick temper. Only Amory gave him a quick glance under shuttered lashes, which he followed up by changing the topic to the tried-and-true distraction of which house would win the Quidditch this year. No one else suspected anything, but then they hadn't visited Snape in his chambers the night after the handfasting.

The dour Potions-Master had been at the celebration, of course. The marriage of a fellow-professor was a social obligation that even he could not skip though he'd retreated to solitude at the earliest opportunity.

He'd soon noticed that one rose bush in a far corner of the grounds had dark burgundy stains on a few of its leaves. It seemed to be infected with Downy Mildew, a rather unpleasant discovery for a gardener, but for a Potions-Master a welcome opportunity to experiment with substitutions in rose leaf-based potions. No need to ask for samples; the leaves needed to be removed entirely anyhow or the whole bush would be blighted.

He'd been turning an affected leaf over to examine the underside for the downy fungus, when Hermione Granger had stumbled onto him.

"Oh," she'd breathed, stepping back. He recognised her voice without turning around and wondered why she sounded near tears at what should be a joyous occasion for her. She was a friend of both bride and groom. "It's you."

"Once again I bow to your superior knowledge," he'd sniped. "No doubt it was necessary to inform me of that fact in case I was unaware of it."

He'd known without looking that she was biting her lip.

"Please don't," she'd muttered. "I don't want to cross swords with you today. I've just had the most ridiculous argument with Ricky." Her voice had wavered and fallen.

Unbidden, his heart had leapt. He'd squelched it and her ruthlessly.

"Surely that's no business of mine."

She'd laughed then, a sad bitter laugh.

Only because he's jealous – of you," she explained her voice dripping with disbelief. "How could he think? I told him he was being ridiculous but he just went on and on –"

Even now, remembering it, his chest squeezed flat and his throat burned. She'd had no idea, of course. Little know-nothing, Know-it-all Gryffindor. His hand had clenched around the stem, snapping it off. Later, he'd noticed the leaf in his pocket and wondered how it had got there. At the time, he'd just concentrated on getting enough air to breathe.

It had taken long seconds before he could speak. He hadn't looked at her.

"Should I be flattered at your assumption that I'm a neuter?" he'd whispered at last. "Should I be pleased that your only interest in my feelings is using them to settle an argument with your friends?"

He'd heard her gasp. He'd had no need to turn to see the dismay on her expressive face; it had been there in his mind's eye as he'd stared unseeing at the roses. He hadn't turned. Breathing had been enough effort.

"I didn't mean – I didn't mean anything like that," she'd faltered. "I'm sorry."

"Gryffindors are always sorry," he'd told her with a very creditable affectation of calm. "It's much more useful to be careful."

She'd been silent for all of ten seconds before she'd exploded.

"You'll never forgive me for being a Gryffindor, will you?" Her voice was thin and brittle as over-boiled sugar.

"For being reckless, tactless, bull-headed and insensitive?" he'd sneered.

She'd stamped her foot then. He'd heard it, a dull thud on the grass behind him.

"How dare you call me insensitive?" she'd cried, her voice breaking on the last word. She'd sniffed and added, "What are you? Tell me, did you promise yourself a treat every time you reduced a student to tears or were their tears treat enough for you?"

And she'd been gone before he could think of anything to say. He still couldn't think of anything to say.

**A/N: "Teachers' spouses in boarding schools" - I found a web-site that mentioned Housemasters having their spouses on school premises. I extrapolated that other teachers don't need to live in.**

**"Mongolian Blue-tongued Kappas" - A nod to PoA where Snape says Kappas live in Mongolia whereas apparently the textbook places them in Japan.**

**"Over-boiled sugar" - If you've ever made toffee you might know that the higher the temperature it reaches the harder and more brittle the result.**


	11. Presaging Rain

PRESAGING RAIN

**This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling who, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and situations elaborated herein.**

**A/N: Spoilers. ****Thanks to all my reviewers. Bellegeste, part of this is especially for you.**

Sheltered by a large oak tree from the worst of the cold January breeze, Hermione sat at the edge of Malfoy Forest, with her arms hugging her legs and her chin resting on her bent knees. She wore a warm woollen cloak, but the hood was thrown back, allowing her unbound, abundant hair to stream halfway down her back. She'd come out here to watch the dawn again as she often did; it was the treat she promised herself after a wakeful night.

This was her favourite spot on the Malfoy Estate. Everyone still called it that although the Ministry had renamed it Victory Gardens when they confiscated it. Somehow coming here was made all the sweeter by the reminder that the arrogant former owners had got their comeuppance. She'd often picnicked on the grounds with Ricky, but he'd always favoured the lawn just past the Manor's formal gardens and near the top end of the stream. Now that she no longer had to consult his preferences, she usually chose the wilder, wooded end to wander in.

Winter had been mild this year, with frosty, foggy mornings and dry, sunny days. It didn't seem right for the weather to be smiling when her internal barometer was set firmly to "Grey, leaden skies presaging rain". She almost wanted the world to be crying with her, but then she wouldn't be able to sit outside here and savour the peace of the morning so perhaps it was better this way.

It would have been so much easier to get over Ricky if they didn't still have to work in the same department. Not that they worked alongside each other very often, at least she was mostly spared that, but so many of their colleagues had taken sides that she was conscious of censorious glances and muttered asides more days than not. She pretended not to notice such from either supporters or detractors since there was nothing to be gained from antagonising anyone further. The short-lived relief of clearing the air in her own defence would soon be outweighed by the long-term damage to her career. She liked her job too much to wish to leave it. Better just sit tight and wait for the storm to blow over.

It had been a long, dreary six months and she was still waiting.

She stared out at the faintly brightening sky, with a wry smile. Ironic really that the cause of her problem had turned out to be the best preparation for dealing with it. No one who'd endured seven years of Snape's acid tongue needed any further lessons in the utility and practice of keeping head down and mouth shut. Though it wasn't quite fair to describe him as the cause when Ricky's unreasonable jealousy had encompassed every man she spoke to.

That last argument rang in her ears again.

"You were smiling at Roger the whole time. Don't think I didn't see you!" Ricky had ranted.

"It's a wedding, of course I was smiling! You didn't want me to frown and ruin the ceremony did you?" She'd been the one to hold out the hand-fasting ribbons for Roger and Luna. Naturally she'd smiled at both of them.

"Next I suppose you'll say you don't like him."

There really was no acceptable answer to that. She sighed and explained patiently.

"He's your best friend. Of course I like him because of that but the one I really like is you."

"You only like me because I look like Snape! All your boyfriends have looked like Snape!"

"I've only ever had three," she protested. "Is it my fault if the only people who like me enough to ask me out are tall and dark or else they've been my best friend since first year?"

"You're saying you'd go out with any guy who asked you?" he'd snarled. "So you don't really like me at all, this whole pretence is just because I was stupid enough to ask you."

"You weren't stupid to ask me. You're being stupid now!" she'd retorted through gritted teeth.

"Oh, I'm stupid am I? Now I know; now I finally hear the truth! Every time we kissed you were thinking how stupid I was, what a sucker for thinking it was real!"

"It was real." She'd been crying by then. "But it isn't any more. I can't take this. I've had enough. Goodbye – and I never want to see you again! Goodbye!"

Even at his best friend's wedding, he hadn't been able to control it. She'd known then that, if he couldn't be shamed into propriety in front of his friends, he'd never be argued into reason without them. She'd run away to a secluded corner of the garden to be alone. And that had worked so well, hadn't it, with Professor Sour-face Snape waiting there?

Too absorbed in examining rose leaves to turn around, he hadn't even done her the courtesy of facing her to throw his routine insults. His voice had never raised from a cold loathing whisper as he'd mocked first her speech, then her grief, then her friends, then her character. It had been some satisfaction to throw his words back at him though she hadn't been brave enough to stick around and wait for his reply. No doubt he'd had something even more scathing to add.

She choked back a laugh at a sudden thought. He should have suffered under his own tutelage for seven years, then, perhaps, he'd have learnt to maintain a polite silence. Instead, he was as thin-skinned and hotheaded as – she grimaced – as Ron! Only more unforgiving. Considering how those two still hated each other, it was funny to notice how alike they were, loyal, stubborn, proud and unreasonable. However, Snape didn't have Ron's kindness or humour – or his large loving family. He was like a darker, angrier Ron, Ron as he might have been if he'd been bullied and alone.

He'd been angry with her when she stumbled onto him at the wedding. He always seemed to be angry with her, but that day more than usual. His icy reaction to news of Ricky's jealousy still puzzled her. She'd thought he was insulted by their presumption of equality with him, but that didn't quite fit with his retort. He'd said something about not being a neuter, something about his feelings. She'd been shocked that he admitted to having any.

The pinky-golden glow was fading from the sky. She stood up to leave and stopped. Behind her amongst the trees, she heard twigs snapping and a soft murmur of voices. Other people here, this early in the morning? Normally, she saw no one. She turned to look.

About ten metres to her left, a grey-bearded stranger who looked vaguely familiar was exiting the woods, head turned back to throw a comment over his shoulder. She looked beyond him to see a tall, dark figure stoop to pull up some mushrooms and add them to his basket.

Her mouth dropped open as he straightened and she saw his profile. It was Snape.

This was her former professor as she'd never seen him, cheeks chafed to colour by the morning's chill breeze, eyes glowing with humour and a smile of pure enjoyment lighting his face. For the first time, she truly felt that the power and energy he exuded in the classroom were innate in the man and not merely a mask he hid behind. It was like watching a Greek statue brought to vigorous life.

Suddenly, her chest was too small. Her heart was hammering against her ribs and her lungs were squashed flat. This, this was why he'd resented her dismissive comments that day. She'd effectively told him he was beneath her notice, but this vital, active man was no less overwhelming as a person than he'd ever been as a teacher.

He heard her strangled gasp and whirled to face her, hyper-suspicious as ever. Their eyes met briefly and his face froze, the curve of his lips transformed to a rictus. Clearly, he hadn't forgotten their last meeting either.

Professor Snape had risen early that morning. All the apothecaries seemed to have exhausted their stocks of Tunbridge Filmy Fern simultaneously with him. It was the wrong season for harvesting fronds, but, fortunately, he knew of the secret coppices in Malfoy Forest that had been charmed to keep plant-life at peak flowering or leafy stage all year round. That was one of the advantages of having once been Lucius's friend. There weren't many others.

At dinner the previous night, he'd mentioned his plans to Amory, who had promptly invited himself along. It was a new experience to take a companion on a harvesting trip. When he was a teenager, potions was an interest his friends didn't share and as he grew older there'd been no one he could still call friend to invite. He hadn't expected that to change, but it was almost a year now since Amory had changed everything with his unexpected Wizard's Oath of friendship.

Gradually, they'd fallen into the habit of meeting once a week in each other's rooms alternately. Amory had introduced Snape to the ridiculously frivolous, but surprisingly congenial, pastime of building houses with packs of Muggle cards. The combination of concentration and precision was just enough mental occupation to provide a comfortable background for long, tranquil silences and occasional confidences – and a slight deliberate shift that brought all tumbling down was an easy way to unobtrusively change a topic or disclaim one's most recent comment.

Amory was an undemanding companion, who spoke little and understood much. He'd had his own experience of darkness and passed through it to a quiet acceptance that smoothed away the rough, and soothed the sore, spots of Snape's spirit. He was the only one to whom Snape had ever spoken of Hermione and that just the once, on the evening after the wedding.

"The rosebush was blighted," Snape had muttered, staring at the dark-splotched leaf he'd found in his pocket.

Shrewd, hazel eyes had glanced at him and away.

"Was it?"

"I was examining it." Snape's shoulders had lifted briefly. "And then she came."

His knuckles had shone white against the surrounding pale skin as he'd bent over the leaf. His Adam's apple had bobbed up and down. She'd eviscerated him with a word. After seven years of teaching her and two years of occasional meetings, when had she gained that power over him? When had she gone from nuisance to necessity?

Mutely, he'd watched as Amory had selected another card and held it loosely between thumb and forefinger while scanning the flimsy construction in front of him.

"She's a bossy, bigheaded, know-it-all child – I don't even like her," Snape had grumbled.

Still Amory had said nothing. He'd been balancing two cards against each other to start a third storey.

"I don't understand why I even care!" Snape had burst out after a long, brooding silence.

"One never does." Amory had hesitated and added, "There's a Muggle saying. The heart has its reasons, of which reason knows nothing." Then, as his hands lifted from the perfectly balanced cards, he'd surreptitiously jogged the table. The house of cards had collapsed and they'd had to start again.

That six-months-ago conversation was running through both men's minds now, as the younger man and the even younger woman stared at each other without speaking. Black eyes warred with brown as two pairs of cheeks pinked and two pairs of lips thinned. Amory's lips twitched as he watched, but he said nothing.

Snape stared at the annoying chit of a girl that kept popping unbidden into his head. Not even setting himself tasks of mental arithmantics or rote recitations could entirely banish the memory of bright brown eyes and rosy cheeks, framed by a cloud of riotous hair with the sunlight through it. Ever at unwary moments, he'd see her sunny smile as she held up the hand-fasting ribbons, her eager hand splitting the air in his class, her hands on his desk as she leaned over to ask his forgiveness and in his ears her bitter demand would echo, "What are you?"

She wasn't smiling now. There were dark circles under those bright eyes and cold, not health, had put the roses in her cheeks. She looked tired and dispirited; only the hair was as irrepressible as ever. His throat ached from wanting to say the right words to comfort her, but he didn't know how. Those words had never even been in his vocabulary.

**A/N Tunbridge Filmy Fern is a rare English fern found mostly in valley woodland where there are rocks and a humid atmosphere. It has small translucent toothed fronds. A perennial, in winter it would be in rhizome stage.**


	12. A Weight of Memory

A WEIGHT OF MEMORY

**This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling who, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and situations elaborated herein.**

**A/N: Spoilers. ****Thanks to all my reviewers. **

Three stood at the edge of Malfoy Forest in a lengthening silence.

"Professor –"

"Miss Granger –"

Two voices broke off together and their owners flushed and bit their lips. Black eyes and brown stared at each other with desperate intensity.

Twenty years practice of straight-faced deception enabled Snape to recover first.

"I'm not sure whether you've been introduced to each other," he said. "Miss Granger, my colleague Professor Marchant. Amory, Miss Hermione Granger."

"Oh, that's where I know you from." Hermione looked up into a pleasant face, with a high forehead and a neat grey beard. Marchant was almost as tall as Snape, but broader and with a more relaxed stance. "You were at Luna's wedding."

"And you were the girl with the ribbons." He smiled. "I'm pleased to meet you at last."

"At last?" she queried with puckered brow. She shot a sideways glance at the younger man. "I don't think I want to know what Professor Snape might have been saying about me."

Snape scowled. If she were anyone else, he'd have pointed out that he had better things to do than gossip about ex-students. Most of them were about as interesting as flobberworms and not much more intelligent.

"I understand you were the one who orchestrated the public campaign to allow Hogwarts teachers to marry and live with their families," the other man interposed. "Perhaps the future will prove that to have been a service to more of us than Roger."

Hermione couldn't help glancing at Snape, whose black-eyed glare reassured her that, if that was a hint at a flowering of professorial romances, it didn't include him. She didn't want to examine why that was a warming thought.

"I didn't do much really. Just a bit of research and some letters to the papers," _and the Ministry and the school governors._ "It was an idea long past its time. I was surprised how easy it was to change people's minds."

"Another Muggle custom you thought worth bringing with you?" the darker man sneered.

"Exactly," Hermione agreed, with a defiant sparkle in her eye.

"They don't seem to have brought you any happiness. You look as if you sleep with scorpions in your bed," Snape jibed. "Too busy mothering everyone around you to look after yourself?"

She swallowed a lump in her throat. Her eyes filled and her mouth twisted into a small, mirthless smile.

"You don't change, Professor, do you? I've rather missed your brutal honesty."

That had been intended as a slur, but as she said it, she realised it was true. At least he gave his criticisms to her face, where she could defend against them. She was sick of office chatter that stopped abruptly as she entered a room.

Snape took one hasty step towards her, the hot blood singing in his veins. Had she meant that, had she really missed him, even in this one small way? He stopped. She'd turned her face away. If he said something else perhaps she'd look at him again.

"Have you eaten today or do you imagine you can live on air?" he demanded.

She shrugged, still staring at the ground.

"I was about to go and have breakfast when I heard you," she muttered.

"An excellent idea," Amory approved. "I'm sure two such old friends have much to talk about. I'll leave the baskets in your office, Severus, shall I?"

Hermione's head whipped up to stare, first at him, then at his companion. With a mutter of thanks, Snape had thrust the basket into his hands and was watching her with a question in his dark eyes.

'He didn't deny it,' she thought. 'Professor Marchant called him my friend and he didn't deny it.' Her eyes were wide and wondering. Her cheeks flushed with living colour and her mouth parted slightly as she waited for an insult that never came.

All at once she had the key to translating Snapish. 'He's worried about me,' she realised. 'He cares.'

Once before, for an afternoon, he'd been her confidant. They'd sat in his office planning her future, as he'd run through all the available Potions-related careers till she found one that fitted. The second time they'd met after that, he'd snubbed her into fuming silence. Maybe this too would be a one-off, a few hours of confidences shared and then another blast of distance, but she'd take that risk. There was a weight of unsaid memory she'd needed to unload for quite some time, things she'd never been able to share with her friends. Here was someone with strong enough shoulders and enough experience of the dark to help her bear it.

The unnecessary third had left and the two stood, staring and speechless, with thudding hearts and blocked throats. Again, Snape's years of spying stood him in good stead.

"Have you a favourite place to go?" he asked.

She pondered. She'd been planning to grab something at home. The fridge was almost empty, but there were a couple of apples and a rather sad-looking banana in the fruit bowl and a quarter loaf of bread. Did she have any eggs left?

There definitely wasn't enough for two. Besides it would invite more snide comments about her eating habits and, the clincher, she wasn't ready to let him in that close. Ditto with buying takeaway and anyhow she hadn't expected to need any money. She didn't want to eat in a Wizarding establishment either. They were both too well known and she wanted to spill her worries without interruption. That left a Muggle café.

"There's a vegetarian place I go sometimes as a treat," she offered, "only I'd have to stop somewhere for Muggle money."

"Little Miss Know-it-all doesn't have the foresight to carry emergency funds?" His lip curled at her, but she laughed disbelievingly at him.

"It's your turn to be the know-it-all. Are you telling me you carry emergency Muggle funds?"

He rummaged in an inner pocket of his robes and pulled out two five-pound notes.

"Will this cover it?"

"Just about." She looked from the triumphant gleam in his eye to the notes in his hand and back again. "I thought you didn't like Muggles."

"I hate their world, not themselves. I don't know any of them well enough to hate them."

"You hated Harry before you knew him. You hated all of us Gryffindors."

"I never hated any of you. I found you annoying, exasperating, tiresome and unruly – you and your friends most of all – but I didn't wish you ill. Not even Potter at his most inquisitive or Longbottom at his most incompetent." His eyes narrowed. "And I recall that I've told you this before. You never used to be inattentive in class. It's only since you left that you stopped listening."

"It's only since I left that you started," she shot back.

Half an hour later, they sat at a small table in the dining room of The Place Below. Snape had been surprised to find it was situated in the crypt under St Mary-Le-Bow church; as they'd walked down the steps, Hermione had dared to tease him about finding himself at home underground.

He'd transfigured his robes into a long oilskin duster coat, black of course and buttoned up. She could just see a glimpse of his white shirt at collar and cuffs, the lower end of his black trousers and rather long narrow black pull-on ankle-boots. The duster was almost as concealing as his robes but the billow was much less pronounced. Her own clothes were transfigured into a flattering cherry-red cape over jeans and shirt.

He looked askance at the bare, wooden table and poked gingerly at his toasted oat porridge, drizzled with maple syrup and cream.

"Eat it. I promise it's good," she told him between sips of russet apple juice. "Everything's good here."

She'd chosen a cinnamon apple muffin for herself and a pot of yoghurt.

"Do you come here often?" he asked.

"Not very often. It's a bit pricey. But the food's always fresh and natural."

"A rarity in the Muggle world," he sneered.

She sighed.

"Just eat. I'm not ready to talk yet."

"How often I used to wish you felt that way in my classes! You were always ready to talk."

"Only because I had something worth saying. Only you never let me say anything."

There was no answer. Much to her satisfaction, his porridge seemed to have left him without any criticisms to make. It was ten minutes before she spoke again. Her muffin lay half-eaten in front of her.

"You were right about my sleeping. I'm not."

He pushed away his empty plate and raised an eyebrow.

"Did Brocklehurst's tantrums bother you that much?"

"Don't say that," she cried. "It wasn't all his fault. Yes, he was insanely jealous, but maybe that was because – because sometimes I pushed him away. Maybe a lot of times." She licked her lips. "We'd be talking about something quite ordinary and I'd freeze. He couldn't understand – I didn't even understand why I'd get upset. And we both know that I'm," (a quiver ran over her face as she looked across at him,) "insensitive."

His chest hurt with the thought that he never should have told her that.

"At least you're never deliberately cruel." _Like me, _he admitted inwardly.

She gave a huff that was half-laugh, half-sob.

"At least you know you're doing it and you have a reason. I'm so self-absorbed and stupid, I hurt people without even noticing!"

More than ever, he wanted to take that comment back, but he didn't know how.

"Not knowing all the answers isn't a crime," he argued.

One corner of her mouth twisted up as she gave him a sideways glance.

"It was in Potions class."

"That's because it's criminally negligent to engage in such dangerous activities without taking steps to protect yourself," he said severely.

There was a gleam of humour in her wet eyes. She brushed at them with the back of her hand.

"You always protected us. I didn't even realise how much till I saw you in battle."

He clenched his teeth. Undeserved praise was hardest to bear. There had been too many deaths that he should have been able to prevent if only he'd found out more information.

She leaned forward, her elbow on the table, and rested her forehead against her hand. Her other fingers lay bent on the table as the side of her thumb drew little circles on the hard surface.

"Ricky wasn't there," she murmured. "He never fought in any of the battles. He couldn't understand; I saw things that still haunt me."

"Of course they do," Snape said roughly. "How could they not? But you have friends who were there. Why haven't you talked to them?"

She sniffed and he whispered a low-level Notice-us-Not charm. It didn't make them invisible to the Muggle customers, but just suggested to prying eyes that they'd better turn elsewhere. If she was going to burst into tears, at least there wouldn't be an audience.

"I don't know," she gulped. "At first it was too close and we just wanted to banish it. Put it all behind us and never think about it again. It felt like we'd been fighting our whole lives, you know?"

He nodded. He'd been fighting his whole life too, on one side or the other.

"I thought I could forget it. I didn't think about it and I didn't dream about it, it was just – finished." She swallowed a hard lump in her throat and hid her eyes behind her hand. "It was only last year - when things started going wrong with Ricky – it started coming back. But it's too late to talk to my friends about it now. They don't want to hear. It's over and that's how they want it to stay." Her shoulders hunched. "That's how I want it to stay too, but it won't."

"Have you spoken to a Healer?"

"All they could offer was Dreamless Sleep Draught, but I can't take it every night. And every time I close my eyes I see Parvati and Lavender coughing up their insides and Dean with his head –" She couldn't bring herself to say. "And I'm falling over Pansy Parkinson again and getting up covered in her blood and all I can think is how I never even liked her." Pansy's death bothered her even more than the others did.

"She didn't want you to like her."

"I know." She sniffed again. "But that isn't the worst."

He didn't need to ask.

"The people you killed." The defenders hadn't used the killing curse – it required a joy in killing that few of them had, even while berserk in battle – but there were other fatal hexes less black but no less effective.

"You know." Her mouth worked, settling eventually into a grim straight line. "You've seen horrors too."

He scowled, lips thinned almost to invisibility and eyes flashing.

"I've been the horror. Had you met me then, you'd not have lived to tell the tale. And after the first very few minutes, you'd not have wanted to."

She shrank back, but her eyes never left his face.

"Do – do you have nightmares too?"

"There are some things it's better not to learn," he snapped.

"But -"

"Foolish, foolish child. Don't you understand yet that the things in life you most wish to forget are precisely the ones you never can?"

**A/N This is the last update before Passover, after which I'll be having a hip replacement, so I can't promise when I'll next update. I estimate another 6 chapters, including the epilogue. The last two are already written, but the rest are outlined only.**

**The Place Below is a real restaurant I found on the UK squaremeals web-site when I looked up restaurants that do breakfast to all comers.**

**Some of you may recognise what Hermione is suffering from. Information is sourced from a PTSD web-site. Canon doesn't show wizards using counselling or psychological support services. The descriptions of the victims are toned down to fit the rating.**


	13. HouseColoured Glasses

HOUSE-COLOURED GLASSES

**This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling who, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and situations elaborated herein.**

**A/N: Spoilers. ****Thanks to all my reviewers for their comments and best wishes. ****Twelve days till my operation. I'll try to post another chapter before I go in, but there's so much else to do...**

"Do you mean that I'll have these nightmares all my life?" Hermione gulped, oblivious alike to the Muggles surrounding them in the cafe and to the Privacy spell Snape had cast moments earlier.

"Call them what they are. Not nightmares, memories," Snape said. "And memories can be obliviated."

She looked up and into his eyes.

"Did you obliviate yours?" she challenged.

Black eyes narrowed to fiery slits.

"My willingness to listen to your confidences in no way translates into an offer for you to pry into mine," he snapped.

Brown eyes flashed. Shoulders straightened and lips tightened as she drew herself up. He'd acquiesced to being called her friend and friends were allowed to ask questions without being accused of prying. She wanted to demand why must he always blow hot and cold like this. Then she slumped again. What else could she expect from someone who'd spent half his life as a spy?

"No, I suppose not," she muttered. "I'm sorry. I just thought that if I understood your reasons it might help me decide what to do."

He set his teeth. He'd hurt her again. He didn't mean to, but sometimes he couldn't stop himself.

"Everything I've ever done has made me into the person I am. I fought too hard to get here to let myself forget the way I came." He gentled his voice. "Be glad that you have nothing to reproach yourself for. You did no more than fight for your life and your friends' lives. There's nothing to be ashamed of in that."

"I didn't have to use fatal force," she disagreed.

"Yes, you did! When a Death Eater raises his wand to you, it's not the time to be squeamish," he contradicted sharply. "They wouldn't have hesitated to kill or Crucio you."

"Of course, you wouldn't understand," she murmured.

His brows snapped together over narrowed slits of fury.

"Because I'm a Slytherin or because I'm a Death Eater?" he demanded, fists clenched under the table. He leaned forward. "Believe me, I understand all too well. Your foolish Gryffindor ideas of chivalry require you to give your opponent a free shot while you stand with your hands tied behind your back. You think fighting is about being fair," he jibed. "It isn't. It's about surviving. It's about winning. It's about protecting the people who are too weak to fight for themselves, children, invalids, Muggles, because if you let yourself die because you're too noble," (His mouth twisted as he spat out the word,) "you let them die too. Then where is your precious chivalry?"

She put both hands on the table and leaned across to confront him.

"Must it always come back to me being a Gryffindor?" she demanded. "Won't you ever see me as just a person?"

Her mouth was drooping and her nose was pink and all the light of creation shone from her red-rimmed eyes. He couldn't speak for looking at her.

"Come out of your cave, Professor!" she continued. "Maybe at Hogwarts everything goes by Houses, but out in the big world it's different. Do you think we go around asking people what house they were in before making friends with them? Do you see people flaunting their house colours in everything they wear? Do you?"

She saw the arrested look in his eyes and hoped that meant she was making an impression. He'd spent nearly three decades, most of his life, at the school, first as student, then teacher and housemaster, so it was natural that he viewed everyone through House-coloured glasses, but she was sick of it. She wanted him to see that she was more than just another Gryffindor.

"You're wearing red," he said. "It suits you." There was a strange, hollow ache of longing in his chest.

Plucked out of this conversation, that might have been understood as a compliment. It was hardly surprising she didn't see it that way. She made an angry little noise in her throat.

"I'm Hermione Granger not Hermione Gryffindor," she growled. "I'm proud of my House but it's not the whole of who I am. Don't tar all of us with the same brush."

His Adam's apple bobbed up and down and his eyes never left her. Pinched, drowned face or no, she was all he wanted to see for the rest of his life.

"I'm not the same as the people who used to bully you," she added.

That was one comment too far. His brows drew down and black eyes flashed in a face of sudden stone.

"What do you know of my schooldays?" he snarled. "Did Potter tell you what he saw in my Pensieve?"

"In your Pensieve?" she gasped. When would Harry have ever got near his Pensieve? Unless – "He never told us. Is that why you stopped the Occlumency lessons?"

"Answer me! What did he tell you? How long have you been laughing at me behind your smile?"

"I've never laughed at you," she protested. "I wouldn't."

Black eyes brooded. Thin lips grew thinner. She searched for words to placate him.

"He didn't tell us anything at the time. Only that you said he was good enough to practise on his own." Chewing her lip, she shook her head and slightly hunched her shoulders. "I always knew that wasn't right. He was still having those dreams." She glanced at his set face, gulped and took a long deep breath. "It was much later. We'd already left school, I think. He didn't tell us any details. Only that his dad's little group used to bully you at school, four against one sometimes. He said it was mostly James and Sirius, with Peter cheering them on and Remus watching and saying nothing. That's all, I promise you." She swallowed again and looked imploringly into his eyes. "Harry might be inquisitive, but he's never told your secrets. He has too many of his own."

The small table and all the wide world stood between them as he glowered into her eyes. Slowly, his face softened.

"You'd never betray a friend, would you?"

"I'm telling you the truth," she insisted. "I'm not lying to you. I'd never lie to you."

He regarded her sideways with still-slitted eyes.

"You would have in school if I'd asked you the right questions," he said coldly.

She blinked away wetness and hung her head.

"Yes, probably," she admitted.

The silence lengthened till at last one corner of his mouth twitched wryly upwards.

"At any rate you're not lying now."

There didn't seem to be an answer to that. She decided to drag him back to the original subject.

"Is there anything I can do about my dreams?"

His eyes narrowed to consider the question. He knew no method other than to endure them as he endured everything awkward or painful or inevitable, but that wasn't the counsel she was hoping for.

"All I can suggest is to harness the strength of mind you learned in Defence classes to defeat a boggart or produce a Patronus. Try if you can guide your dreams into happier paths when they wake you. And take Dreamless Sleep twice a week so as not to fall into a pattern of sleeplessness."

"Will that make the nightmares stop?" she asked, eyes wide with hope.

He shrugged and folded his lips. The brightness fell from her face as she watched him.

"You don't know?" she said slowly. "Then you do still have nightmares?"

His set look hardened into a black glare as his fingernails dug into his palms.

"You ask too many questions. You've always asked too many questions," he hissed. "If you'd lain bound and wandless at Voldemort's feet, you'd probably have asked him why he wanted to be a Dark Lord instead of doing something useful like freeing house elves."

Her flinch at the start of this speech melted into a choke of laughter.

"You knew about that?"

He cast up his eyes.

"Everyone knew. There was a betting pool in the staffroom for how long you'd keep it up before you discovered that unbound elves are too dangerous as a species for us to free them."

She was torn between amusement and indignation.

"Why didn't anyone tell me? I wasted my time on that for more than two years."

He remained unsmiling.

"The best lessons are the ones you learn yourself. I hoped it would keep you too busy to get yourself into any more serious trouble, but plainly I underestimated your energy. You and your friends were always throwing yourselves into trouble, arrogant, aggravating nuisances that you were."

"And you always made sure we knew it, didn't you?" she shot back. "If you weren't calling me a know-it-all or taking points for helping Neville, you were insulting my teeth."

His lip curled.

"How was I to anticipate my hasty comments would cause you so much distress, after you'd demonstrated the previous spring how little you valued my opinion?"

She'd joined her friends in hexing him unconscious to save Black. That recollection hurt more in retrospect than at the time. She had then been no more to him than an unruly student. He'd been deeply, coldly resentful at the ingratitude for his attempted rescue, determined to inflict his displeasure at the first opportunity, but his feelings had been too impersonal to be wounded. Now, it seemed more significant, a symbol of the antagonism and mistrust that still bedevilled them. He wanted to move past it, but he didn't know how.

Biting her lip and letting her unbound hair shade her face, she stared down at her half-eaten muffin. She picked it up and began crumbling it without looking.

"I've said I was sorry," she muttered with trembling voice. "What else could we do? You were threatening to turn them over to the Dementors instead of the Ministry."

"And you thought me cruel enough to do it. You didn't hesitate to throw in your lot with a convict you'd never met and a werewolf about to transform." He scowled. "Yet I gave better treatment than I received. I conjured stretchers to carry you all safely and I know no one thought to do that for me. When I woke up, I had scrapes and bruises all over my head and feet."

Hermione's hand stilled and her eyes flew to his glowering face.

"I'd forgotten! That was Sirius, he kept bashing you into the ceiling and the stairs." Her face crumpled in sudden realisation. "Oh, how could he? You were already concussed, that could have killed you."

"It wasn't the first time he'd tried to kill me," he spat, adding bitterly, "Would any of you have mourned?"

Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"We were children, we didn't know any better. Remus should have said something."

"He never does. Prefers to get others to do his dirty work for him."

"I don't think you're being quite fair," she said in a small voice. Muffin crumbs fell away from her fidgeting fingers.

A rising flood of pent-up hurt was running away with his tongue. From across the table, he loomed over her, black eyes blazing into hers.

"Fair? Was it fair to call an attempt on my life a childhood prank? Was it fair to let Black brutalise my unconscious body? Was it fair to deny me justice?"

"But he didn't kill Harry's parents or those Muggles."

"And I didn't hand him to the Dementors. I took him to the castle and you promptly helped him escape."

Hermione watched her finger trace around and around the edge of her plate.

"This isn't working, is it? We keep gnawing on the same grievances like a dog with a dried-out bone. I said I was sorry, you said we could start over." She glanced at him and away, lips pursed and eyes shadowed. "But we keep circling back to where we began. I think I'd better go."

"No!" The word was wrenched out of him before he could stop it. Her head jerked up, but her eyes were doubtful. "Anything worth having is worth fighting for," he told her, plucking the desperate words out of thin air. "Sometimes you have to clear away the weeds before you can grow the garden."

Her mouth twitched up at one corner.

"Do you think we could ever work together well enough to grow a garden?" she murmured. "Wouldn't we end up just tearing each other apart?"

"The fairest rose garden is full of thorns. Do we value the rose less because it hurts to hold it?"

Then his cheeks reddened. He sounded like a lovesick fool. He was a lovesick fool, but she didn't have to know.

Hermione's eyes widened as she bit back an incredulous smile.

"Professor, are you – are you likening yourself to a rose?"

Eyes black as night glared at her under lowered brows. He pushed his chair back and stood.

"You said you wouldn't ever laugh at me."

He had to walk past her to leave. She caught at his hand to stop him.

"Don't go," she breathed. "Anything worth having is worth fighting for. Even if it's our own selves we have to fight sometimes."

His hand twisted in hers to return her clasp. For a long moment he stood in place searching her warm open eyes then he jerked a little nod and sat down again in his seat. He didn't release her hand.

**A/N: A Grade 3 concussion is suspected when a blow to the head results in loss of consciousness for more than a few seconds (eg Snape in PoA).Post-concussion symptoms include amnesia, confusion, headache, dizziness, nausea and inability to control one's emotions. ****Victims must be monitored for potentially fatal problems like internal bleeding that might not be immediately noticeable. A second blow is believed to increase the risk of death (Second Impact Syndrome) or permanent impairment. **

**To give you an idea, the American Academy of Neurology sports guideline is that a Grade 3 concussion requires a trip to the hospital and suspension of activities until two weeks without symptoms. Lesser symptoms that last more than 15 minutes require the player to suspend activities until one week of no symptoms. **

**A side note:"Brutalise" is rather a strong word but I'm letting Snape call it how he sees it.**


	14. A Punishment Deserved

A PUNISHMENT DESERVED

**This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling who, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and situations elaborated herein.**

**A/N: Spoilers. ****Thanks to all my reviewers. **

Hermione stood in the glade, eyes wide and wondering. After three months of fortnightly breakfasts at the café, they'd returned to Malfoy Forest to catch the height of the bluebell season and before her lay a fragrant, knee-deep carpet of blue under the trees, extending as far as her eye could see. It was a deeper, gayer blue than the sky. Pale and bright flashes of butterflies darted in and out of sight and there was a heavy drone of bees.

"If I'd known this was the way to silence you I'd have brought you earlier," Snape said, smirking at her speechlessness. "Haven't you ever seen a bluebell forest in spring before?"

A pair of orange-tip butterflies chased each other through the dappled sunlight to land on her motionless arm, their speckled wings still. She waited till they flew away before she spoke.

"My parents never thought of it. They've always been more interested in culture than nature and I suppose I followed their example."

"Next year, we'll start in early April and you can track its blooming," he promised, hoping she wouldn't instantly deny it. "Shall we walk or have you lost the use of your limbs as well as your voice?"

She grimaced at him, but took a few steps forward. Then she stopped.

"Won't we spoil them?"

"There's a path." He led her to the left. "Here. Narcissa had this made. This was her favourite spot in the spring, I believe." His eyes were sombre behind the curtain of limp black hair.

"Do you miss them?" Hermione ventured before they'd walked ten steps along the path.

His face closed.

"It's long since I counted them as friends," he said shortly.

She remembered asking him that once before, at the first Anniversary Commemoration. He'd replied by asking her to define friends and his subsequent disclaimer of trust and loyalty had hinted that he felt he'd forfeited friendship as soon as he turned spy. She bit her lip. He broke the uneasy silence first.

"So there are still some areas of knowledge Little Miss Know-it-all hasn't explored." He smirked at her glare and continued without a pause, "Perhaps next time I'll bring you to the best-kept secret of this forest, the greenhouse coppice. That's where I'd taken Amory that day we met you here. Every plant there flowers all year round."

From plants to her favourite plant-loving friend was a short step in her thoughts.

"Neville would love a place like that!" she exclaimed.

"If you had any thoughts of inviting him along, I'd recommend you discard them instantly. Though I doubt even his devotion to plant-life could persuade him to brave myself as a tour guide." Black eyes turned towards her with a malicious gleam.

Hermione was torn between a laugh and a scowl.

"He's my friend," she reminded him sternly. _I won't let you make fun of him – or of any of them._

"I assure you that my memory is as sharp as ever. I'm in no danger of forgetting how often you disobeyed me in order to prop up his inadequate preparation and incompetence in the classroom. Did it never occur to you that your help would have been better placed in preparing him beforehand?"

She gave a little jump and her brow furrowed.

"No. It never did." She shrugged and her brow cleared. "But it wouldn't have helped anyhow. He was so terrified of you, he couldn't concentrate on anything when you were there."

"I don't tolerate carelessness. I keep a strict rein on the classroom to prevent it," he explained.

The path followed the gentle curve of the slope. He paused as it rounded a particularly large tree to allow her to pass first.

"You frightened him so much, he made more mistakes instead of less," she told him.

It was his turn to shrug.

"He needed to toughen up. He's a Gryffindor, isn't he? He should have shown some of the backbone that got him sorted there."

She took a quick, angry breath.

"He did that every time he turned up to your class!" she shot back.

He wasn't fazed.

"I did him a service then. Pity he's not properly grateful."

Hermione glanced sideways at him under frowning brows, asking herself what she was doing with him. It was three months since she'd reached out for his hand to stop him leaving and he'd held it like a lifeline. Had they made any progress since then? He hadn't touched her since and they still hadn't called each other anything less formal than "Professor" and "Miss Granger".

He was still sour and silent by turns, still quick to anger and be angry. Did he even like her? He must, else why give her so much of his time, yet she could hardly tell from his manner. The question was, did she like him. Was that funny jump-twist of her heart as the corners of his mouth lifted when their eyes met, a sign of anything deeper than friendship? Or was she just flattered that the teacher she'd always wanted to impress now wanted to impress her?

Chewing on her lip, she bent down to examine an individual plant, touching the tip of a long narrow leaf and running her finger along a row of soft blue-violet bells. Did she want this? Did she want him? Enough to disregard her friends' certain dismay and disapproval, even perhaps horror from Neville who feared him and Ron who still hated him? Enough to ignore his equal dislike of them?

He seemed to catch her thoughts through the thick silence.

"That was unnecessary," he conceded. "I'll try to remember in future that your friends must have some redeeming qualities that endear them to you." His mouth twisted wryly. "However unsuccessful I've been in discerning them."

She snorted, still bending over the flower so he couldn't see her face. That was about as close to an apology as she was likely to get, but she didn't think she should accept it. _A miss is as good as a mile._

"It isn't one of your many talents," she said with edged civility. "Perhaps the fault lies in your unwillingness to look."

Tight-faced, he looked down at her bent, brown head. He didn't need to see her face to know her mind. After a moment, he sighed agreement.

"Perhaps you'd like to assist me by enumerating all the sterling qualities I'm too blind to see." There was a sarcastic bite to his voice, but she chose to ignore it for the nonce. She straightened up and gave him a long, cool look.

"Perhaps I would."

"Play teacher then and tell me," he invited.

She started further down the path, with a challenging toss of her curls as he followed.

"I've a better idea." The sweetness of her tone warned him and he set his teeth as she continued. "I'll follow your teaching example and make you tell me. Then I can threaten you with detentions and house points if you fail."

He gave her a speculative look. She couldn't see it, but she heard the teasing in his voice.

"Detentions with yourself?"

Was he flirting with her? Her heart gave another funny twisty jump.

"No, with Harry, or better yet, Ron. He'd just love to turn the tables on you after all the times you gave him detentions – scrubbing out the infirmary bedpans, wasn't it, and pickling rats' brains?"

"Insufferable know-it-all," he muttered. "Don't you ever forget a detail?" Yet there was a gleam of affectionate amusement in the complaint.

She smiled to herself.

"Go on then," she challenged. "Tell me what you like about Harry."

"Nothing," he muttered, then held up his hand as she whirled on him. "He's not as obnoxious as his father, I suppose," he added reluctantly.

"Hmm."

He scowled at the expectant tone of her response.

"Anyone who bested Voldemort in a fight can't be a complete dunderhead," he huffed.

She stooped slightly to let her hand trail along the heads of fragrant blue flowers as she walked. This was heaven.

"Go on."

"Perhaps his arrogance turned out to be not entirely unjustified," he mused, glowering at her back. "At any rate his talents did eventually catch up with his impulsive habit of rushing blindly into danger. And he did always have an enviable ability to slide out of trouble." _Due largely to the unjustified bias of certain headmasters and house-mistresses,_ he thought but knew better than to say.

She cocked her head. He knew she was smiling triumphantly.

"Anything else?" she prompted, exacting her pound of flesh with annoying but exemplary thoroughness.

There was a long silence.

"His taste in friends is not entirely abysmal," he said grudgingly.

"That goes for all of them, but good enough. Now Ginny."

His lips twitched, despite himself. Wicked, vengeful girl. She was going to make him think up compliments for every one of her annoying, silly friends. He should have apologised properly. It would have been less painful. No, it was too early to admit defeat.

"Not as much of a nuisance as most of her brothers," he sniped. "Her performance in class was adequate."

"Make another crack about her brothers and I'll include the twins," she threatened.

He closed his eyes and gulped.

"I suppose it's useless to ask for mercy," he gloomed.

Ahead of him, she gave a little unconscious skip that set her abundant hair flying. His eyes, opened again, noted it with an appreciative gleam.

"Oh, let me think," she drew out the words. "How many times did you ever miss an opportunity to call me a know-it-all for being too smart?"

His eyes widened and his mouth twitched again. She'd walked into that one.

"Almost every lesson," he said. "When you consider how many times I could have said it, compared to the infinitesimally small number of times I did -"

She swung around and glared at him. He smirked back.

"You! You! I'll make you sorry you ever said that," she spluttered. "Neville then! You have to come up with ten good things to say about him or I won't let you off."

That wiped off his smirk almost as quickly as she could have desired. It would have had to disappear yesterday to be any quicker.

"I think I'd rather have the punishment," he offered.

"I don't think so," she carolled, her brown eyes glowing with jubilant laughter. "Punishment is to say them to his face."

He swallowed hard.

"One," he bargained.

"Not enough."

"Two, three? Five?"

She shook her head.

"Did you ever let any of us off a punishment you thought we deserved?" she pointed out. "For any reason?"

He scowled at her, but deep inside was a little unacknowledged bloom of happiness. He'd made her smile, he'd made her laugh with joy, and every inch of her indignant, glowing, triumphant self was glorious.

"Longbottom," he grumbled. Heart thumping at his daring, he swept forward and took her hand in his, placing it on his arm to continue their stroll. Would she repulse him?

"Neville Longbottom," she agreed, looking up at him from under demure lashes as they walked. "I'm waiting."

"His taste in friends -"

"You've said that one," she cut him off.

"Just making sure you don't forget to count it."

Her hand was warm on his arm. He wondered if there was any chance that she'd move closer and put her head on his shoulder by the time they'd finished.

"He has a notable affinity for green, growing things – perhaps a fellow-feeling for life forms as silent and unenterprising as himself."

She glanced at him sideways through narrowed eyes.

"Don't push your luck," she warned, giving each word its due separate emphasis.

Their eyes met and duelled. He raised his eyebrow and she pinched his arm just hard enough to sting. His eyes narrowed. He ignored her advice and deliberately pushed harder.

"He had enough sense to know who was both clever and foolish enough to give him the answers."

She took a deep breath, preparatory to blowing him up. He got his next point in quickly. Sometimes timing is everything.

"He never deliberately blew up a cauldron." He wasn't smart enough to know how.

"He did you a service then. Pity you've never been properly grateful," she seized the opportunity to throw his own words back at him. He ignored them magnificently.

"He turned out better than I expected," he allowed,his voice dripping with fake magnanimity.

"Glad you admit it," she snorted. "But then your expectations were so low."

"That's five," he counted, letting a note of hopefulness slide into his voice.

"Keep going."

He stared into the distance and the past with slitted eyes. After a long silence, he thought of another.

"He never talked back."

"Six." She raised an expectant eyebrow, but he thought he heard a weakening of resolve in her voice.

"Split the difference?"

Eyebrows raised and lips pursed, she looked him over. He didn't look repentant, but if friendship with Ron had taught her one thing, it was that sometimes it was better to compromise.

"Oh, all right."

Black eyes held a victory gleam.

"He isn't a Potter or a Weasley." He smirked and added, "That's two points."

Tipping up her chin, she glared at him. He thought he was clever, did he? Well, she'd warned him.

"Now the Weasleys," she gave a thin smile, "starting with their parents. And if you dare argue I'll make you do Remus too."

Twenty years of spying had taught him when to fight and when to submit gracefully – or as gracefully as one could while screaming under Crucio. He took a deep breath and began.

**A/N To any reader who might have been traumatised by "Fates and Fortunes", I promise I have no intention of ever making Snape say "Yes dear." So why is he a tad hesitant? In any relationship where one loves and one doesn't yet, the balance of power tends to favour the latter.**


	15. A Position of Respect

A POSITION OF RESPECT

**This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling who, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and situations elaborated herein.**

**A/N: Spoilers. ****Thanks to all my reviewers and wellwishers. I'm up and walking. **

Snape strode through the empty corridor and turned into a long hall. Up two flights of stairs, down another corridor, left, left, right and up another flight. No one but the portraits, the Grey Lady and Mrs Norris with her kittens. Perhaps the children were too tired from the Leaving Feast to break curfew. He cast one scowling glance up and down the long straight passage and turned on his heel to investigate the Astronomy Tower.

'She asks too many questions,' he brooded. 'She's always asked too many questions. Aggravating irritating exasperating chit.'

Up and up. Tread lightly on the creaky step and bypass the trick one. Make sure all the children are safely back in their rooms before he could rest himself. He'd spent one endless, scarring night be-spelled to a high ceiling in second year; he'd make sure none of his charges ever underwent a similar experience.

Not that he'd get any rest tonight. Not with the memory of their last meeting screaming through his head.

They'd met five times since their first stroll through the bluebells, always settling into the same pattern, a mix of argument, quiet discussion, unadmitted longing and sudden anger. It was easy for him to listen as she talked about her still-troublesome dreams or her problems at work. He could even hear about her annoying friends and their silly lives without undue discomfort, if only she wouldn't keep asking him questions. Last week, she'd pressed him about his Death Eater days until he was almost ready to hex her.

"Your company would be more tolerable if you learned not to pry into what doesn't concern you." Must she flay off his skin and splay him bleeding and raw on the table so her greedy eyes could investigate the workings of his exposed inner self like a mad Muggle scientist?

"How can you say it doesn't concern me? How am I to understand, if you refuse ever to talk?"

It had been a struggle to keep his temper. He'd concentrated on sounding icy rather than molten with rage.

"Is your friendship dependent on knowing everything I've ever done?"

She'd jumped up and glowered down at him.

"I can't do this!" she'd proclaimed. "I can't keep telling you everything when you keep pushing me away. It's not prying to ask questions! It's not nosy to want to understand what makes you tick!"

He hadn't liked looking up. It was too reminiscent of his awkward schooldays, before he'd shot up and learned to stand tall. It brought back bitter memories of lying, body-bound or Stupefied, on the grass, in a ring of bragging bullies, their wands raised to hex him. He'd scrambled up to answer.

"I don't tick, I'm not a clock," he'd snapped. "I don't have to tell you anything. Let me be."

"If that's what you want!" She'd brushed the back of her hand across her eyes as she turned away. "You know where to find me, if you ever decide I'm worth talking to."

"Silly girl, of course I think you're worth talking to. I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

He'd reached for her hand, but she'd Apparated away leaving him standing. That had been eight days ago but his stomach still churned and his chest was hollow. _Irritating, impossible, indispensable wretch of a girl!_

He was at the top now. Through the half-open door, he could just catch a glimpse of long, lustrous, dark hair in the moonlight, a girl with a male arm around her waist. He racked his brains. Too tall to be that sixth year Ravenclaw and none of the other seniors had hair that length and colour. The hair too silky to be the Maskelyne girl, a scatterbrained fifth year Hufflepuff that he'd be glad not to see in his classroom next year. Unless – had she straightened it somehow?

He flashed back to the Triwizard Ball six and a half years ago and a very different bushy-haired girl, who'd stunned the school by appearing with hair straightened and shining, to open the ball with one of the champions. He hoped she wouldn't try that style again. The wild abandon of her usual curls was more appealing. Not that it mattered now. She'd returned his letter with a single sentence scrawled across the back, "You know my conditions."

Enough of that! He swept forward and placed his hand on the door sneering.

"Star-gazing the night away? I'll remember your detentions for next -"

Eyes widening he stopped short.

"Amory? Minerva?"

They had turned at his approach and Minerva's hands had gone instantly to her hair. He watched their half-amused, half-embarrassed exchange of glances as she expertly coiled it into her usual bun and a black blaze of jealousy flared up in his chest. A second successful round at love for them both, while he couldn't make it work even once. In an instant, the rage had burnt out into a grey-ash coldness of guilt. How could he begrudge them healing or happiness after their first loves' tragic deaths?

He couldn't look at them. One of the telescopes was pointing downwards. He straightened it mechanically.

"If you'd warned me, I'd have known not to disturb you."

He'd intended a tone of cold reproof, not hurt reproach. He turned to leave.

"Your presence could never disturb me, Severus," Amory said. "I'm pleased to have this opportunity to speak with you. You've barely looked up from your lists all week."

The post-exam period was blissfully empty for students, but for teachers it was a frantic dash to update all paperwork and inventory supplies for the following year. The deputy-head had all his own reports to finish, plus everyone else's to initial and approve.

"I suppose you don't want a third," Snape retorted.

Minerva's stern lips softened. She hadn't seen his eyes dull or his hands fidget since he was a sulky awkward teen. When he'd returned to teach, she'd barely recognised the armoured, elegant man who met defeat and victory alike with the same sour smirk and straight shoulders. So the boy was still there underneath.

"On the contrary, a third opinion is exactly what we need," she said crisply. "We've been discussing whether one of us should find another job."

"Another job?" He didn't want either of them to leave. He turned back to join them at the parapet, resting his hands on the ledge and frowning in thought. "Your scruples are unnecessary. The school would suffer more by your departure than any accusations of favouritism could produce. Who would replace you as head?"

"Yourself, perhaps? Don't you tire of teaching classes full of dunderheads?" she cut in, baiting her suggestion with his favourite term of description.

"Not enough to exchange them for the older, more ossified, dunderheads in the Ministry," he scoffed. "In any case, I'm decades younger than any previous head. The Governors would be more likely to choose an unpalatable stranger. And how long would we search for another competent Defense teacher if you left, Amory? You're the first in decades to last more than a year."

"You don't think it will cause problems?" Minerva probed.

"Nothing we can't handle." He scowled. "It may mean a little extra wrangling over budget allocations and duty rosters at staff meetings," _one of the banes of his life,_ "but not enough to warrant another search for staff. We've had to replace too many already." Hooch, Dumbledore, Hagrid and DADA all in the last three years.

"Very well, if the Governors don't object, we'll both stay."

Snape nodded, thin lips set and black eyes staring out at the black night sky. He didn't want to look at them. He supposed that somewhere inside he was happy for them, but their content threw his own depression into bitter relief.

"I've missed our meetings," Amory said, after a long slow survey under heavy brows of the brooding man by his side. "We've barely spoken since before the exams."

The younger man's head was bowed and his hands tight on the parapet. It was an invitation that hurt as much to accept as to refuse. He glanced sideways at Minerva, considering whether he was desperate enough to speak in front of her.

She'd been his teacher once. He hadn't liked her then, but they'd been teaching alongside each other for twenty years since, most of that time as rival Heads of House, and antagonism had gradually softened into respect. She wasn't a gossip. She was a straight-backed, hardheaded, sensible woman, Amory's chosen, and therefore included in their Oath of friendship. Perhaps her insight into the female perspective might be useful.

Quietly, he said, "I don't know how to do it. Any of it." His face twisted and his hands clenched tight. "Friendship." His Adam's apple bobbed up and down. It was even harder to say the next word. He'd never dared voice it till now. "Love."

Conscious that if she pushed he might never dare confide in her again, Minerva checked the exclamation of surprise on her lips. Love?

Amory nodded, hazel eyes thoughtful.

"It's new, unfamiliar."

Snape pushed away from the parapet.

"If it were only that!" he burst out. "She wants to know -"

He shook his head and his shoulders slumped. Minerva broke the silence.

"To know what?"

Dark eyes burned with exasperation.

"Everything. My entire life in detail. Where, what, why, how. Most of all, why."

"Can't you tell her?" Minerva asked, then bit her lip. She didn't need to see the goaded sneer on his lips to know it was there. "Sorry. I suppose you've never told anyone. Unless Albus?"

He shook his head. He'd allowed Dumbledore to freely Legilimise him the night he'd turned himself in and then after every Death Eater meeting but he'd never brought his experiences so far into the realm of acceptance as to put them in words. Even at the trials, he'd spoken only of others' crimes, not his own. He'd bargained successfully for that evidence to be Pensieve testimony.

"Well, surely there must be some things you don't mind speaking about, something unconnected with that part of your life," Minerva argued. "It was only a couple of years."

"No," he snapped.

_She didn't understand. How could she? Those few years had been the defining period of his existence. Everything he'd done before or since was part of it, either as preparation or reparation. Could he disconnect his schoolboy tormentors from the surrogate victims he'd pasted their faces on for hexing practice at revels? Tear away his teaching experiences from the self-recriminations and espionage considerations that had held him to a job he'd only slowly learned to tolerate?_

Amory laid a restraining hand on Minerva's arm. His love had strong common sense, but she was a little too impatient to suit his reserved friend.

"You wish she'd stop asking," he suggested. "Learn to take you as you are?"

Before Minerva's astonished eyes, the lean, pale face softened.

"As well ask a river to flow up into the sky." Thin lips curled up in affectionate remembrance. "She's always wanted to know everything about everything, even as a student. She wouldn't be Her – herself if she stopped asking questions."

Minerva gasped. An ex-student – voracious appetite for learning – Ricky's jealousy -

"Severus? Hermione Granger? Was it true then?"

"Of course not. It had never even entered her head then – despite all his efforts to put it there." He scowled. "What does it matter? She won't even speak to me now."

"Transitions are painful," Amory mused. "Eyes accustomed to darkness need time to get used to the sun."

"Appeal to her love of learning to set up a meeting," Minerva suggested. "Then ask her for time. She's a sensible, patient girl. She'll understand."

It was good advice as far as it went. He thought it over as he filed and sorted, as he wrote orders and signed invoices, as he prepared applications to the school board and perused their answers, as he copied names and sent out notices and supply lists to new students and returning students, as he visited Muggle families and held orientation meetings and Diagon Alley tours. He ruminated in the morning, under the bright midday sun, or in the cool of his office as he brewed, when the evening drew close, and through long wakeful nights.

By the time school resumed, the sharp agony had subsided to a dull empty ache, but it was still unbearable. He wrote again.

Three days later, Hermione was crumpling his letter between nervous fingers as she knocked on his door. It had been short and curt and entirely Snapish, "If you still wish to learn to brew Wolfsbane I'll be starting a batch on Friday at 7 p.m." and she should have thrown it away, but she couldn't.

"Enter."

How that took her back! Three years ago, he'd called her in with exactly that intonation and she'd stumbled through an apology to his bored and unrelenting stone-face. She hoped this interview would go better, but she was determined that she wouldn't be the one apologising this time.

"I do still want to learn Wolfsbane," she challenged him as soon as she'd closed the door behind her, "but I won't be manipulated. That wasn't really why you wrote, was it?"

He had stood up as she entered and was waiting by his desk. His lips tightened.

"Is it manipulation to wish for the favour of your company by any means I can contrive?" he asked.

"I don't know. It depends whether you're trying to mend our disagreement or ignore it."

"Will you give me the courtesy of a chance to reply before you run away this time?"

"I don't know what to say," she whispered despairingly. "What do you want me to say?"

One brief, searing, black-eyed glance, then he looked down again.

"Anything you choose except goodbye."

His temper lines were deeply marked. She had a sudden ridiculous fancy to smooth them away with a finger, like a child correcting misshapen letters in a copybook. She licked her lips nervously.

"I don't want to say goodbye. I've missed you too. Rather a lot."

So much that she'd dug out all her old Potions essays to remind herself just how nasty he could be. It hadn't worked. Impossible to read, "Written like a leaky tap; perhaps a wit-sharpening potion would stop up the overflow," with the same feelings now.

His unguarded look brought her halfway across the room before the endless weary arguments of the last two months stopped her.

"It's no use," she muttered. "If you're always going to be a closed book, this won't work. It would be kinder not to try."

Brown eyes watched black through a long hopeless silence. Just as she began to turn away, he called her back.

"Wait!"

She waited. Breathing hard, he closed his eyes and bowed his head, his fisted hands white with tension.

"There are some things I can never and will never discuss." _Things I won't let myself remember; things that would make you hate me._ "Leave my Death Eater years alone and I'll try to answer anything else."

Her heart was trembling, but her voice was steady.

"Will you tell me why you joined?"

Behind the curtain of greasy hair, she could just see his eyes snap open and his lips tighten as if to refuse. Her throat was full of sharp rocks; her eyes were prickling, but she wouldn't back down.

At last, he spoke, his voice barely audible.

"It seemed better than the alternative."

She gulped.

"What was the alternative?"

One flat word fell into the empty hush.

"Nothing."

"You mean – What do you mean?" she faltered.

"I entered Hogwarts with one ambition," he muttered, "to earn a position of respect." Respect but not love. He'd known even then not to hope for love. "I knew already I'd never have anything but by my own hard work. It was quickly brought home to me – perhaps you've also noticed - that neither talent nor effort meant anything without popularity, the accident of personal charm that made Potter and Black everyone's Golden Boys and me the black beetle under their feet."

She nodded. She hadn't realised till she left school how much of the respect she'd worked so hard for had actually stemmed from the reflected glory of her friendship with Harry Potter. The magical world was no meritocracy - unless merit was measured by name and smile wattage.

"In seventh year, I looked ahead into a future of the same perpetual, petty, daily humiliations." He shrugged. "And I decided I'd have none of it."

She caught her breath. If she could trust him not to answer, she'd have asked what he meant. As long as she didn't hear it in words, she could preserve the pretence of not knowing.

"But – you didn't –" she choked.

His mouth twitched.

"Bella found me. She hexed the vial into the fire and me into a Body bind while she raged at me." He rubbed his cheek in remembered pain. It had made quite a satisfying explosion. She'd slapped him hard for ruining her second-favourite robes."She told me of a leader who appreciated talent and ability, who'd let me earn the place I deserved. I joined the next day."

There was another long silence. He was still looking at the uneven patch of stone floor he always avoided walking over. She was still watching his face.

"If that's what drove you to join then what could drive you to leave?" she breathed.

His mouth twisted into grim brooding and his eyes were lightless.

"Respect from others is useless when you don't respect yourself."

**A/N I welcome your opinion; should I have stopped this chapter earlier?**

**The Black Family Tapestry, released by JKR several months after this was written, revealed that Bella was several years older than Snape. However, too much of this fic would have to be altered to fit HBP-canon and beyond, so I've left it.**


	16. The Strongbox of Memory

THE STRONGBOX OF MEMORY

**This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling who, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and situations elaborated herein.**

**A/N: Spoilers. Thanks to all my reviewers. Re-posted with a few changes thanks to Bellegeste and Vickie211.**

Severus Snape shifted in his chair and moved a warm, wonderful weight of clinging, penitent Hermione to his other leg. He wouldn't be able to walk tomorrow if she sat on this one much longer; it had never been the same since the muscles were stripped by a passing hex he hadn't been able to dodge in the final battle.

With a muttered "Here, let me," and without moving her other arm from around his waist, she briefly slipped out her wand to cast a cushioning spell, then snugged her head back into the crook of his shoulder and resumed hugging him as if she could never get enough. He burrowed his large nose in her impossible, springy hair and hugged back.

Her reaction to his explanation bewildered him. She'd closed the last few steps between them and flung herself into his arms, murmuring incoherent regrets and self-recriminations. As his arms had closed instinctively around her, he'd wondered if he was dreaming. He'd expected and dreaded her disgust, but she seemed to think of nothing but how nearly she'd lost him before ever knowing him. It was disorienting.

What had seemed to him, at seventeen, a cold act of reason, had been transmuted by three extra years of bleak endurance into a weakness to be scorned, a child's petulant tantrum against the unfairness of the world. It was almost worse than his subsequent impetuous decision to join, without investigation, a mysterious, secret group that had turned out to be both mad and murderous - almost. It paled beside the result of that folly. Yet if he still mostly thought he'd have been better off dead, he'd never felt tempted to repeat the attempt. By the time he was twenty, despair had long hardened to stony resolution. He would labour in the cold dark alone to repair his fault, to save the world that rejected him or die trying. There was honour in that at least.

Only he hadn't died.

Since the final battle, three years ago, he'd been trying to continue on in the same way, ignoring the painpricks of feeling returning to an appendage gone numb from disuse, the terrible aching hope of change. The fugitive glimpses from the corner of his eye had been too inchoate to be recognised at first, but gradually they'd coalesced into the glorious, irrepressible abundance of this eager, stubborn girl. She had too much of everything for most people's taste, too much curiosity, sense, steel and determination, too much dogmatic certainty and bossy perseverance, but he was too accustomed to nothing not to delight in sudden plentifulness.

He said nothing of his thoughts, only tightened his arms around her, not quite daring to believe in tomorrow. If this were his one moment of Heaven, he'd hold fast to it with all his strength. Hermione nestled closer, her head in the hollow just above his collarbone and her curls tickling his chin.

"I always hated her," she murmured at last, "for what she did to Neville's parents. I can't hate her now." _Not when she saved you for me._ Ridiculous to wish she could have been born twenty years earlier to save him herself; ridiculous to feel jealous that it had been Bellatrix and not herself who'd thrown that vial into the fire.

He wound a curl around his finger and tickled her cheek with it.

"You can still hate what she became," he demurred. "Time was, she'd have hated it herself. She wasn't like that then. None of us were."

Instantly, he cursed himself for reminding her that he, as much as Bella or any of his school-friends, had grown into someone she could hate all too easily. Someone she should hate. Fortunately, she didn't pick up on that.

"What were you like?" she murmured.

He stirred uneasily.

"Haven't I answered enough for one night?"

"Please understand," she apologised, rubbing small circles into his back with one hand. "All I've ever actually been told about your past came from Sirius. I used not to question it."

She bit her lip as he stiffened. The circles became larger.

"What did he tell you?" he scowled.

"Mostly how much he hated you. But he also named your friends and said they'd all become Death Eaters."

"They did."

His uncompromising honesty was one of the things she admired about him. Her other hand reached up to touch his rigid cheek.

"That's why I need to know what you were all like before that. Did any of the others regret it?"

"They wouldn't have dared to admit it if they did. We were like lobsters in a pot, once in there was no way out." Some had tried and died for it, but none of his particular friends, not after Regulus Black's example. "I think Lucius might have. Not then, but when we were called back after all those years of quiet. Not because his opinions changed, but he preferred the life he'd made without it."

She reared her head back to stare wide-eyed into his face.

"But he was one of the worst! The dungeons at the Manor –"

"Of course he was, with so much at stake. Waverers can't afford anyone questioning their commitment."

"What was he like before?" she asked, settling back against his chest.

"He was Prefect, then Head Boy," he summarised, hoping to pacify her with the least amount of detail. "He knew his worth to perfection and we worshipped him almost as much as he did himself. Poor Draco could never measure up. That's one of the things that ruined him."

He glanced at the sliver of countenance he could see under her hair, hoping she wasn't offended by his sympathetic mention of someone she'd always loathed. Lower lip caught between her teeth, she gave a thoughtful nod.

"Were you friends with him?"

"With Lucius? He was far too grand for little first and second years to call him friend. Protector, patron, adviser, defender, all of that and more till he left. Things were never the same for us after that."

The tide had turned against Slytherins after Lucius's departure, a proud house humbled by the envy and mistrust of the other houses. He'd built them up again when he'd returned to teach. There'd been seven years of glory before her best friend's arrival in first year had overturned their success.

"I always thought he liked you. Didn't he want you as headmaster in my second year? And I remember Umbridge saying he'd recommended you -"

"We've covered this before," he snapped. "Friendship requires more than liking." Perhaps as adults they could have been true friends in a different world, one where they'd stayed on the same side.

"Bellatrix then. She was a friend, wasn't she?" How had she known what he was planning otherwise?

She felt him shrug.

"Not really. She used to pick my brains because she didn't like failing, but she was popular and I wasn't. She had a way of looking at you as if you were the only person in the world and she was always laughing." It hurt to remember that. Azkaban had changed her laughter to mania and he was the one who'd sent her there.

"But she saved you," Hermione protested.

"Why should that mean anything? Wouldn't you try to save someone, even if you hated them?"

She took a deep breath of relief. Then he wasn't mourning her particularly. Good, she didn't think she could have borne that.

"Tell me about your friends. Please?"

He scowled, but he couldn't refuse her. Sighing, he rested his chin on her hair. Haltingly at first, for her he unlocked the strongbox of memory and, in doing so, reclaimed the contents as his own, all the sad, silly, funny and excruciating experiences he'd shared with the school-friends he'd grown up to betray. It still hurt to remember them, but she gave him strength to bear it.

Absorbed in reminiscence, they didn't register the intimacy of their position till at last he fell silent. Then they noticed at the same time. She gasped and flushed scarlet as their eyes met. His mouth went dry. He gulped and her eyes fell, and then the moment was past without either having taken the initiative. Hermione sprang up, hands fidgety and face carefully turned away.

"It's – it's late," she stammered, "and we didn't brew Wolfsbane after all."

He couldn't look at her either.

"Tomorrow will be time enough. The Ministry doesn't need it till Monday. Are you free to return? I'll walk you to the Apparition point."

"If you have a sofa, I could stay," she offered, then blushed redder than ever. She'd only meant that they could talk some more.

His eyes widened and his breath caught.

"Not in my rooms," he said after a moment. "It would be all over the school by breakfast." What an example for the students! "Is that how you want your friends to find out about us?"

He knew she hadn't told them and couldn't help wondering whether she was ashamed of liking him and whether their predictable outrage would deter her. The one small strand of comfort, she'd never betray a friend; he was her friend and she wouldn't betray him.

She didn't need to look at him to hear his uncertainty.

"No, not like that. But I will tell them, now that there's something to tell."

He got up and walked around the other side of the desk.

"It will be better if you stay in Minerva's rooms. I'll ask her."

"You don't mind her guessing?"

He lit the fire with a wave of his wand, threw in a pinch of powder and knelt towards it where she couldn't see his face.

"She doesn't need to guess," he muttered.

Smoothing her hair and straightening her robes, Hermione pondered this during his short colloquy with the headmistress. Ironic that such a private man had told a friend before ever she'd considered telling hers. As she watched his straight back and long, lean limbs, her lips curved up in admiration. He was so graceful, even kneeling for a floo-call. He'd never be conventionally handsome, but there was no one she'd rather look at. Then she thought back to the moment when they'd almost kissed and cursed her lack of Gryffindor boldness.

Professor McGonagall's matter-of-fact welcome soon dispelled Hermione's embarrassment. The two women eyed each other measuringly over cups of tea and slices of pound cake.

"You're not a student here now. Minerva will do," the older woman said.

"I'll try, but it's hard to get used to calling a teacher by their first name."

"You have experience though, don't you? Severus -"

Hermione choked on her tea.

When she finished coughing, she admitted rather shamefacedly, "I call him Professor." She'd grown so used to the name she'd never thought till now how inappropriate it was to their new – involvement. They were more than friends; she admitted that to herself at last, with sheepish self-discovery.

Minerva restrained a snort of amusement.

"If you're waiting for him to invite you, you may be waiting a long time," she said. "This is one occasion he probably wouldn't mind you being a Gryffindor."

A rueful smile curved Hermione's mouth. She poured herself another cup and stirred in a spoon of sugar.

"He always minds me being a Gryffindor."

That didn't bother her as much as it used to. His stiffening and silence this night, whenever his reminiscences had approached the subject of the Gryffindors who'd made his school life unbearable, had told her more than words could have.

"It didn't stop him falling for you. I wish you could have seen his face when he told us you wouldn't be yourself if you stopped asking questions."

"I suppose he was exasperated," Hermione muttered.

"No, besotted. I never thought I'd see that. I've been wondering ever since how you got together and when?"

"It was in January. We chanced on each other in the woods and –" She pursed her lips and cocked her head to one side. "I'd never seen him look that way. Relaxed and – smiling! Till he saw me, that is. We'd had words the last time we met and he was still angry." She paused and brightened, her eyes shining with pleasant memories. "Then all at once, it didn't seem to matter and Professor Marchant sent us off to have breakfast together." She stared at her half-eaten slice, remembering her hands nervously crumbling an apple-cinnamon muffin that first time. "And that was enough somehow."

"So Amory knew. He never said anything." The gleam in the older woman's eye promised the culprit a stern talking-to, but after a moment her face softened. "Perhaps I'd better mention that we're betrothed."

Hermione's eyes widened.

"Really? He said something that day about profiting from my changes to the Teacher's Spouse regulations but I'd no idea he meant himself." She'd wondered if he meant Professor Sna – Severus – and had felt absurdly relieved at the other man's disclamatory scowl.

Minerva set down her empty cup and took another slice of cake.

"That long ago? He didn't say anything to me till Easter."

"Each as slow as the other. That must be why they're friends." Hermione primmed up her mouth, then subsided into a grin. "You've known Professor Snape a long time, haven't you? You were so prickly around each other when we were kids, we thought you disliked him." The professor – Severus – was always prickly.

"My first year as Head of House was his first year of Hogwarts so I suppose you could say that we began the process of learning together."

"I hadn't thought about that. You were a teacher here when he was at school," Hermione mused. She thought of what the prof – Severus – had told her that night and felt a fire of resentment rise in her chest. "How could you – how could all of you let Harry's dad and his friends bully him like that and never stop them?"

Minerva's lips curved into a tolerant smile at her impassioned complaint.

"He gave as good as he got."

"But it was four against one." That wasn't fun; that was bullying, plain and simple.

"Sometimes it's better not to interfere. High-spirited teenagers -"

"It was more than that." Hermione closed her lips tightly. He'd told her in confidence. She couldn't say anything.

Unconvinced, Minerva shook her head.

"If he suffered so much, you'd think he'd know better than to be so harsh to his students."

Tight-lipped and fuming, Hermione pushed her plate away. She'd thought that too once.

"That's easy to say," she argued, "but what other way of dominance did he ever learn? He started teaching so young there were still students who remembered him as Snivellus. And he was already a Death Eater before he finished school. That wouldn't have taught him any better."

"That was his choice. He was always a sullen, difficult boy -"

"I don't want to hear what you thought he was like!" the younger woman snapped. "You didn't like him then, did you? It would be disloyal for me to listen."

The headmistress sighed.

"You might like to remember that he trusted me enough to tell me about you. Whatever we may have felt in the past, we're friends now."

Hermione took a long, deep breath that hissed out in a sudden sigh.

"Sorry, I'm being very silly, aren't I?" His revelations throbbed in her mind like a fresh bruise, but he must have come to terms with them a long while ago. Only in that case why had she had to pull the reluctant words out of him? No, he may have forgiven Professor McGonagall – Minerva – but he hadn't come to terms with the past. Probably he never would.

**A/N If you're wondering how she knew Bella sent the vial into the fire I added that to the last chapter when I re-posted with a few small changes.**


	17. Carrying the Storm

CARRYING THE STORM

**This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling who, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and situations elaborated herein.**

**A/N: Spoilers. Thanks to all my reviewers and especially to Bellegeste for helping resolve some dilemmas.**

_Hola Hermione,_

_I'll be back from Spain next weekend. I'm taking you on a Girl's Day Out on Saturday; we'll hit the Muggle stores and maybe a movie? How do you feel about a birthday makeover and while we're relaxing in the spa you can wax lyrical on the joys of Snape?_

_Ginny_

Hermione stared at the letter and sighed. It was her own fault. From the moment in the Great Hall at breakfast, when she'd called him Severus and he'd smiled at her instead of sneering, the other teachers had been covertly watching them. He'd given no sign of noticing till they'd reached his office.

Then he'd turned and said flatly, "The whole school knows. Perhaps you'd better forgo the Wolfsbane till next time and speak to your friends before Weasley owls his sister."

"I came here to learn Wolfsbane and I'm not leaving without it," she'd announced, catching his hand in a friendly squeeze.

He'd pulled her hand up to plant a kiss in the palm, a thankful smile lighting his face. 'Two smiles in one morning,' she'd thought, her fingers curling up to stroke his cheek. That was more than he'd previously given her in her entire life. Her other hand had reached up to trace the line of his jaw and he'd turned to kiss that hand too. Then he'd cleared his throat and put her firmly away from him. This was not the time.

"Very well. We'll start immediately," he'd promised and, from that moment, he'd become completely businesslike. She'd followed his lead for a day of collaborative enjoyment, a child's eager dream of helping her teacher brew finally fulfilled. Back then, she'd only wanted to prove herself; she'd never have imagined it could actually be fun.

Oh, and it had been worth it, even if she had to pay for it now by facing friends who'd heard the news from someone other than herself. Friends who'd probably think she was either mad or brainwashed. She grimaced. Reality had punched her in the nose again.

Talking to Prof – Minerva, she corrected herself resolutely – had been helpful, but that was one of his friends, not hers. She needed to talk to someone of her own, but one that didn't already hate him. That narrowed the possibilities down to the entirely Muggle inhabitants of a certain terrace. She sighed at the sobering realisation. For the first time since she was quite a little girl, Hermione Granger desperately needed her mum and dad.

Luckily, one of them at least was home and puzzling over the surgery accounts at the kitchen table.

"Where's dad?" Hermione asked.

She filled the kettle and pulled up a chair, just far enough away not to disarrange her mother's papers. Mrs Granger gave her a long humorous look over silver-rimmed spectacles.

"Adjusting the reception on Aunt Dottie's TV again. Or maybe he's finished that and now he's unblocking the laundry sink. Did you want him specially?"

"Hmmm?" she added after the query met with no response but a shrug and a sigh.

Hermione smoothed the tablecloth with restless hands. Maybe she should have rehearsed an opening.

"Mum," she said hesitantly. "I'm seeing someone. Someone I like a lot."

Her mother's head jerked and her hand tightened around her pen so as not to drop it. After a moment, she put it down and straightened her papers, then she turned her chair slightly towards her silent daughter.

"For how long?"

Hermione rolled the words around on her tongue before speaking them.

"All year. Since January."

"You met him in January and you didn't say anything till now?"

Hermione winced. Her mum's voice was calm, but perhaps it would turn accusatory when she clarified that point.

"I didn't meet Severus in January," she admitted. "That's just when we got together. I've known him much longer than that." Hanging her head, she added, "Mum, he was one of my teachers. From Hogwarts."

Her mother opened her mouth on hasty words, then slowly closed it again. She drew a long breath before allowing herself to comment.

"One of your teachers? But even the youngest is twenty years older than you!" Her eyes widened. "Is that who it is? The werewolf?" He might be very pleasant, but she'd been unable to think of him in any other way since Hermione had confessed the true story of her school exploits.

Hermione shifted in her chair. The kettle boiled. She got up with relief to pour the tea. Over her shoulder, she muttered her answer.

"No. He's the same age though. It's Severus Snape."

She'd inherited her mother's long memory and her father's cool logic. She didn't need to look to know her mother was frowning.

"The Potions-master? The one you always hated?"

Hermione gritted her teeth. Gryffindor courage, be darned, she could do with some Slytherin cunning about now. Did she have to say all the wrong things in all the wrong sequence?

"I didn't hate him. Well, not most of the time. My friends do though."

"You can hardly blame them." Mrs Granger studied her daughter's rigid back and began mechanically to tidy away her accounts. "So what's changed then – Wait, isn't he the one Ricky was so jealous of? The one he accused you of fancying and everyone thought he must be crazy."

The straight back grew straighter. Hermione set the kettle down with a clatter and a scowl.

"I didn't fancy him then. I didn't even like him," she said.

"Then why did Ricky think you did?"

Hermione's lips thinned as she spooned sugar and poured milk.

"I've asked myself that so many times. I think maybe he sensed that Severus fancied me. Only he was determined not to; I had no idea he ever thought about me. But Ricky might have noticed. And that would have made him feel threatened, perhaps, because he still admired Severus from school, almost idolised him, I thought."

"Yes, that could be." The older woman accepted her cup of tea and leaned back with a sigh. "Tell me about – Saveloy? How do you say his name?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and sounded it out.

"Sev-er-us."

"Sav –ell-us."

"Severus!" Why did her mum get every wizard name wrong?

"That's what I said, Savellus. Why do you like him better than Ricky?" her mum probed.

"I just do."

Hermione's lips pursed as she thought about it. She should have anticipated it – for sure everyone would ask the same question, of themselves if not of her – but she'd never considered it before. They were too different. If Ricky were in a movie, he'd play the swashbuckling pirate-hero; Severus would probably be the martyr going up in flames at an auto-da-fe.

"He isn't handsome or pleasant or friendly, but he's true. Sharp and true as steel," she mused.

Her mother made a doubtful face.

"He sounds pretty difficult to live with."

"Difficult? I suppose. But it's more difficult to live without him. I tried for two months and I don't think I've ever been more miserable. Ever."

There didn't seem to be any answer to that. The older woman sighed and sipped her tea.

"You'll have to bring him to meet us. I know you're grown up and you'll make your own decisions, but promise you'll let us meet him before you do anything irrevocable."

"If I do, you and dad have to promise not to interrogate him. And don't say anything about his teeth." _Why couldn't dentists see crooked teeth without burning to straighten them? Probably the same reason Severus couldn't see students without wanting to squelch them_. "He has the most awful teeth, but if I can live with it, you have to too."

With that over, Hermione could look forward to meeting Ginny next week, if not with anticipation, at least without dread. She'd wait to talk to the others till she'd found out what Ginny had told them. Thank goodness she hadn't planned on a party for her birthday – not that she ever did. That should give her a chance to tackle them one by one at her convenience.

True to her word, Ginny didn't raise the Snape issue till they sat in consecutive chairs at the manicure parlour after Hermione had flatly refused the spa.

"So," the younger girl drew out the word with salacious expectation, "Snape?" She raised her eyebrows and shook back her feathery red mane. "Why?"

Hermione glared at her.

"Because I love him, you prat. Why else?" It was the first time she'd used the L-word. Her lips curled in a broad, relieved smile. There! She could say it after all. Maybe next time she saw Severus she'd even say it to him.

Her friend gave her a pitying look.

"Yes, I get that, but why? Why him? You're not just looking around for a Ricky-substitute, are you? I know they look a bit alike, but –"

Brown eyes kindled and brown hair tossed.

"They don't look alike at all!" Hermione flashed. "You all say that, but it's just nonsense! There must be millions of dark-haired, dark-eyed, hook-nosed men that look more alike than they do!" And that was just in Spain! After all, it wasn't exactly a unique look.

"All right, all right," Ginny apologised. "I didn't really think you couldn't tell the difference, I'm just surprised is all. No offence, but it's just really hard to picture, you know?"

"I know," Hermione admitted. "I used not to be able to picture it either. But we just seem to fit somehow. I can tell him anything and he'll listen, anything at all."

"And he doesn't make nasty comments?" Ginny's voice rang with incredulity.

"He tries sometimes, but I understand him now. He's not as nasty as he pretends to be."

Her friend gave a snort of laughter.

"I should hope not!"

Choking, Hermione swatted her arm.

"I didn't mean that like it sounded," she protested. "He's not nasty at all, not to me."

Ginny giggled.

"Good, because there's at least a dozen of us ready to hex him if he ever tries."

Luckily she let it rest there, abandoning the subject of why in favour of how, when and where. By the time they got home, Hermione's feet were slightly sore and her arms were aching, but her heart was lighter. That lasted just long enough for her to dump three heavy bags on a chair and pull off her jacket. It was at that moment that Harry lifted the Disillusionment spell.

"Surprise!"

Hermione's heart dropped along with her jaw. She looked at the room full of her closest friends, all no doubt waiting to question her about Severus, and briefly wondered if a swim in the Amazon with piranhas might be more comfortable than the next few hours.

Ginny caught her eye and shrugged apologetically.

"You are twenty-two," she pointed out, ignoring Hermione's mumble of not till Friday, "and you wouldn't let us celebrate properly last year. You didn't really think we'd let you off forever without a party."

Grimly, Hermione pasted on a smile for the benefit of the human piranhas circling her with hungry white-toothed smiles. Let them tear her apart with questions, she had no choice now but to face them.

She managed to keep her temper through the first twenty explanations until Ron, who'd been glowering in the background, escaped from his watchful girlfriend and decided his turn had come.

"So Ricky was right," he accused.

"He wasn't. I didn't even like Severus then." How many times had she said that in the last hour?

"You've always liked him," Ron snorted. "Even at school you were always defending him."

Susan turned from her conversation with Hannah and shook her head at him.

"Ron!" she warned.

"Not like that!" Hermione snapped at the same time.

Ron ignored both of them.

"How could you? If you're too selfish to care how he treated the rest of us, how can you forget how he treated you? Remember the teeth!"

"I haven't forgotten how he treated anyone. He did what he thought was right at the time –"

"Right!" he shouted, loud enough that the room went momentarily quiet, then carefully, studiedly noisier than ever. "To hate Harry for what his dad did before he was born –"

"Don't bring me into it," Harry interrupted, sinking truth and family feeling for the benefit of friendship, "I might have hated me too for what my dad and Sirius did to him at school – worse than Malfoy they were, from the little I saw."

Ron's eyes popped and his ears turned redder than his hair as Harry returned to the path of veracity.

"He was a right horrible git to us as a teacher, but he's not our teacher any more and if Hermione wants him –" He turned to Hermione, screwing up his face in sudden doubt. "Do you want him? Really? It's not just some rumour like they used to spread about me?"

Hermione knew she had to look him in the eye at that.

"Yes I do. Always. I tried to do without him and I couldn't."

"Always? Right now?" Harry's mouth went a funny shape.

She blushed and looked at her fidgety hands.

"Especially right now."

He tried to hide his grimace.

"Rather you than me. I won't ever like him, but Hannah and I will try to put up with him, if he's what you want."

It was easier to hug him than to speak her thanks. Ron interrupted with a growl.

"I won't. He's a rotten, greasy git, who made our school lives miserable and who stood on both sides of the fence during the war till he could pick the winning side! He's no good for you!"

Susan tried to cut in, but Ron swept on unheeding.

"I won't have anything to do with him and you'd better not either."

Hermione stiffened.

"Don't, Ron. Don't make me choose. You're one of my oldest friends."

Ron ignored Susan's restraining hand on his arm

"Then give him up." He slammed down his ultimatum with steely confidence.

"Is that your last word?" Hermione's eyes burned as she watched him nod emphatically. "Then that's it for us, Ron." She gulped and gulped again. "He listens to me and he understands me – and you've never done either."

She turned away as she spoke and headed for privacy in the kitchen, only to find Neville arranging trays of tapas. Ginny was always bringing back recipes from wherever her job sent her. Though she mostly preferred to order them in than to actually cook them. He glanced up, his mild face troubled.

"Snape?" he asked. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Hermione swallowed back a sob.

"Not really. Look, I know he was foul to you in school –"

Neville pushed a paper serviette towards her and turned back to his work.

"Never mind that. Do you really like him?"

"Yes." Hermione's voice was muffled as she wiped her face.

"And he you?" He sighed and went on without pausing. "He must do, I guess. He was quite polite when we bumped into each other outside Slug and Jigger's last week. Said he supposed we were both glad never to have to face each other across a classroom again, but he'd trust my plants in his cauldron any day."

Hermione's hand dropped from her eyes and her trembling mouth curved up.

"Did he?" That was a change of tune and all for her. Her face glowed. "I wish I'd heard him."

Susan entered the room at that moment.

"Hermione, I'm sorry. He insists on leaving. I'll try to talk to him after we get home."

"Don't quarrel on my account," Hermione told her. "The last thing I'd want is to come between you."

"Don't worry about that, I know how to talk to Ron."

It was a friendly reassurance not a criticism. Hermione met her eyes and forced a smile.

"I don't like Snape either," Susan added, "but that doesn't have to mean the end of our friendship, does it? If he's civil to us, I'll be civil to him and I'll try to get Ron to just keep quiet."

"Ron's never been good at keeping quiet."

Despite herself, Susan chuckled.

"You can say that again! But I'll see if I can bring him round. He won't stay angry forever. Or maybe –"

She stopped and folded her lips, eyes darting away.

"I won't stop loving Severus, if that's what you mean!" It was Hermione's turn to fold her lips and look away. "Sorry. Look, let's not talk about it now. I know it was a shock for all of you, I don't blame you, but I really don't want to defend myself any more tonight. I love him, he loves me, I'll call you sometime when we've all cooled down."

There was a tense silence after Susan left, which neither Neville nor Hermione could quite figure out how to break until Ginny came in, eyes blazing.

"That idiot brother of mine!" she exclaimed, dumping her tray with an angry clang. "I'm sorry, Hermione. It's just such awkward timing that we found out too soon before the party to clear the air and too late to cancel –" The words tumbled out too quickly for her to stop in time. She made a face. 'Sorry."

Hermione twisted the paper napkin and crushed it into a ball, which she threw in the bin. Watching it land, she spoke without looking up.

"You don't have to apologise. It's my fault, isn't it? You probably all feel I betrayed you."

"No, of course we don't! You can't help who you love, we all understan – well most of us understand that. It's just –" She grimaced and shook her head. "Never mind."

"No, tell me," Hermione ordered. "It's better to get it out than to leave it stewing. It will only boil over in the end."

"You won't want to hear it."

"I don't want to wonder about it."

Ginny bowed to the grim determination in her friend's voice, but her voice was hesitant.

"We all liked Ricky. It's just hard for us to understand why that didn't work, but you're so sure this will."

"We're your friends, Hermione," supplemented Neville. "We just want you to be happy."

Hermione understood the unspoken question. They'd blamed Ricky for the break-up, but now they couldn't help wondering if what they'd thought was unreasonable jealousy had been warranted after all.

She sat down rather suddenly at the kitchen table and buried her head in her hands. The silence grew loud as a scream before she looked up at their worried faces.

"I liked Ricky a lot," she muttered. "I really did. It wasn't anyone's fault that we broke up, we just weren't meant to be. We rowed together happily enough while the stream was gentle, but when the storms came, our oars got crossed. It's the opposite with Severus. The choppier the waters, the more we pull together."

"But why do you need to row through the storm at all? Pull in to harbour and shelter from the rain." Ginny's voice was urgent. Why choose a difficult character like Snape to row through life with?

Hermione's smile was twisted. 'How can we escape the rain,' she thought, 'when we're carrying the storm inside us?'

Perhaps it was fortunate that she was spared having to answer by the sudden arrival of an uninvited black-clad guest. Pity no one else thought so.

**A/N: I feel very silly. I wrote and posted this chapter with Hermione turning 21, totally forgetting my original calculations that she was 22 here, so I've had to re-post to fix that. Luckily the changes were minor.There was going to be a party in this chapter anyhow and Hermione's surprise works well for me. Also, thanks Kismet0116 for pointing out the typo.**


	18. An Excuse for Thumbscrews

AN EXCUSE FOR THUMBSCREWS

**This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling who, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and situations elaborated herein.**

**A/N: Spoilers. Thanks to all my reviewers.**

Hermione filled the last vial of PepperUp, stoppered it and placed it in the crate next to the others.

Normally Severus would have brewed this year's supply of potions before school started, but last winter had been so mild the infirmary had used much less than expected. The oversupply was beginning to thin now, so he'd dedicated the first two days of Yule break to preparing more.

It was the only one of his responsibilities that he could share with her. Otherwise his days were so filled with teaching, marking, patrolling, supervising detentions, counselling Slytherin students, attending staff meetings and doing paperwork that their interaction would have been restricted to letters and the occasional breakfast together.

That didn't seem enough any more, so he'd been careful to schedule his term-time brewing for occasions she could attend. Her weekends were free and he could normally clear a three or four hour block in advance, though of course his students always took precedence. Fortunately, interruptions were less than on weekdays.

Hermione hadn't appreciated quite how restrictive romance with a boarding-school teacher would be.

Even if he'd been as cheerful and chummy as Charlie Weasley, still holding down the COMC job though he hankered for his dragons, he still wouldn't have been able to hold her hand in public, let alone kiss her. As he was instead both formal and private, she had to be content with a crinkling of the eyes or an upward curl of his thin mouth in the Hall. Even behind closed doors, they were careful not to disarrange hair or clothing further than could be put right in the second or two between hearing a knock and facing the intruder.

They'd been waiting for the extra spare time of holidays with impatient zeal. With only five Hufflepuffs, four Gryffindors and one student each from Slytherin and Ravenclaw staying on there would finally be an opportunity to relax together and engage in conversations more refreshing than "Pass the ashwinder eggs" and "Why didn't you tell me you needed an extra two stalks of alihotsy?"

Thankfully, other areas of her life were showing improvement. Once she'd let her friendship with Severus become known at work, Ricky had moved on, smugly but thoroughly, and even his most ardent supporters had been silenced by the casual comment that somehow Severus could always tell when she was upset and who was to blame. Her friends were unenthusiastic but politely acquiescent, except for Ron. He'd always hated Severus and that wasn't going to change.

Two hard raps on the table summoned a house-elf to take the crate directly to Poppy. Resisting the urge to rub with unwashed hands, Severus scrunched his eyes tight and opened them again.

"What did you do before you had me to help you?" Hermione teased, watching him stretch and yawn.

Severus gave a sigh of exaggerated patience, watching her out the corner of his eye.

"I did it myself, of course." He rolled his shoulders and flexed his fingers. "And I might add it took no more time and I suffered a good deal less backchat."

"If you'd rather I leave -"

He smirked and snatched her in for a hug as she walked past him to wash her hands.

"One day I might take you at your word," she threatened, giving him a light kiss on the lips before pulling away.

Frowning, he joined her at the sink, but, instead of putting his hands under her stream of water, he slid his arm around her waist and rested his chin on her hair.

"One day I'll ask you to," he murmured, almost too soft for her to hear.

What did that mean, she wondered? She twisted her head to see his face but she couldn't. Before she could ask him to explain, he spoke again, louder this time, releasing her and wetting his hands.

"What would you like to do tomorrow?"

Filing the other question away for further thought, she began to scrub her own wet hands. They had an entire fortnight before she had to return to work, two weeks to spend together with very few intervening calls on his time. She wanted to spend it all with him, but she had old friends too, who also had a claim on her attention.

"Would you mind very much helping me choose an engagement present for Zacharias and Eloise? Or should I nip out by myself? He owled last night to say they've set a date."

"I don't see why the urgency," he prodded, eyes narrow with suspicion. "Wouldn't it make more sense to wait till January when the shops will be emptier?"

"They're having an impromptu party tomorrow night," she admitted, turning off the water and staring at her hands as she dried them. "You're invited, of course."

"Of course," he sneered. "And you thought you'd soften me up for it by starting with the shopping trip, did you?" He wiped his hands on the towel, finger by finger. "Or were you offering to trade one irksome duty for another?"

"Irksome?" she objected her eyes dancing with mischief. "Do you dare to call my company irksome?"

"Not yours," he said dryly. "You know I dislike shopping, but if it comes to a choice -"

She chewed on her lip.

"I was hoping to coax you to both."

He shot her a frowning sideways glance. She shouldn't try to out-Slytherin a Slytherin. She was far too Gryffindor to use such tactics successfully.

"Hmm. Have you forgotten the last time I socialised with your friends?"

The only time. Although they'd attended celebrations and commemorations in common, he'd never approached his former students and most of them had avoided him. That hadn't been an option at her ill-starred surprise birthday party.

It was a pity he'd met the youngest male Weasley coming down the stairs as he went up them that night. The Bones girl had been unable to dissuade her hotheaded boyfriend from greeting him honestly and the encounter had gone downhill from there.

"Filthy Death Eater," young Weasley had spat. "I bet you miss kissing old Snake-face's slimy a-"

The girl's yell of warning had almost obliterated the last word, but it had been unmistakable. Only the thought of Hermione's distress at a quarrel had blunted Snape's sharp response.

"You should be grateful, Mr Weasley, that I've spent the last twenty years restraining myself from hexing dunderheaded children." He should have stopped there, but habit overcame him. "Though perhaps in your case I should have made an exception."

"Stay away from her, she's too good for you!" the younger man had continued, ignoring his companion's anguished wail of "Ro-on!"

"I have never ascertained any evidence of a functioning mind inside your empty head. I shall therefore ignore your kind advice." He'd nodded politely as he'd swept past the gibbering boy, hand discreetly poised near his wand just in case. "Good evening, Miss Bones."

"Good evening, Professor Snape." She'd given him a rather stern look, adding, "You'll have to do better than that, you know. Ron may have started it – no, be quiet, Ron! – but if you really care about Hermione you won't talk to her friends like that. Or do you want her to be left without any?"

At that moment, they'd noticed that Hermione's front door was open and Potter was observing the scene. He didn't speak, but his scowling green eyes and tight-lipped mouth hinted that he'd heard it all. Snape's pale cheeks had flushed brick-red as he'd stood straight-backed and stiff-shouldered.

"I will endeavour not to drive Hermione's friends away," he'd said through gritted teeth.

It would have been easier to bear if Weasley's voice hadn't been audible in the background just before the door had closed behind him. "That was brilliant, Sue. You told off that greasy git just right! About time too!"

Then Severus had found himself facing a roomful of her friends looking him over with scowling hostility. He hadn't realised she was having a party. A quick scan of the room confirmed her absence from it.

"Good evening," he'd said since it was too late to retreat, receiving in return scattered replies of "Good evening, Professor."

"I think we're a little past that, don't you? You've probably been calling me Snape behind my back for years," he'd sniped rather bitterly. "You might as well call me it to my face."

"Is that an invitation to use the other names we've called you behind your back?" This had come from a sneering mouth that had matched his own.

His lips had thinned and his eyes had flashed as he'd considered his reply. He'd reminded himself that both policy and affection required polite forbearance. She liked these annoying people.

"For Hermione's sake, I'll pretend that comment went unsaid, Mr Smith. Just this once."

At that moment, Hermione had appeared at the kitchen door, pale-cheeked and slightly pink around the eyelids, but smiling at him. His smile in reply had lifted the room temperature from absolute zero to just above freezing point.

"Severus, I didn't think I'd see you today!" she'd exclaimed, hands outstretched in welcome.

"That was evident." He'd crossed the room to join her. "Thank you for not inviting me to the party."

"It was a surprise," Ginny Weasley had cut in.

_A surprise? So were Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. Some people liked not knowing what they were about to taste._ He'd wondered whether this one was closer to slug pellet or slug. Another thought better left unsaid.

"I'm afraid I can't stay," he'd substituted an innocuous escape route. "If I might have a word?"

Longbottom had bolted out of the kitchen at that, to allow them their privacy. Snape had quietly followed Hermione through the door, closing it behind him and leaning against it as she'd turned to find out his purpose.

"I missed you," he'd admitted. It was a mild expression for the fierceness of wanting that had possessed him since their last meeting's kiss-that-almost-was. This time, he was determined to change 'almost' to 'absolutely'.

Torn between reproach and laughter, she'd let him pull her, soft and warm and willing, into his arms, but she'd exacted payment soon after by dragging him out to trade dagger glances and social smiles with the obstreperous occupants of the other room for another twenty-five minutes before she'd let him leave. He'd taken the hostile silence with him.

All this passed through his mind in a moment.

"Are you sure you want to inflict us on each other again?" he muttered, knowing already the pointlessness of the question. She was a Gryffindor; of course she'd keep knocking their heads together till she'd knocked her version of sense into at least some of them.

She sighed. She hadn't forgotten that chilly atmosphere and awkward formality either.

"I hope you've learnt some better manners since then," she said acidly. "Maybe I should have made you compose laudatory poems in their honour."

He blenched and blustered.

"You're an aggravating, irritating, little wretch."

"And you're still the nastiest, most disagreeable man I've ever met." She was only half in jest. "Our children are sure to be the horridest in the history of the universe!"

_What?_ Her mouth stayed open as her brain replayed her own words. _She hadn't said what she thought she'd said, had she?_ His frozen stare confirmed the terrifying truth that she had indeed said exactly that. And it was too late to take it back.

Children. The world went still as that one word with all its implicit demand of everything, every day, ever after, hung between them. Black eyes sought brown and held.

"You want children?" he asked hesitatingly.

She chewed on her lip a long time before answering, having taken herself as much by surprise as him.

"I've never thought about it before. I suppose I must," she muttered. "I wouldn't have said it otherwise."

His intent face gave nothing away. They were still standing by the sink, turned towards each other in an endless frozen moment.

"How many?"

Eyes still locked on his, she tried to speak through the nervous lump in her throat.

"One, perhaps."

His eyes narrowed under heavy brows.

"You said children. That's plural."

The words tumbled out with unconsidered speed.

"Yes, but – All I know is I definitely don't want a Weasley brood. That wouldn't suit me at all. I can't imagine I could possibly want more than two."

There was another long, difficult silence then.

"When?"

"Some time in the future." She shrugged. "Definitely not yet."

Her eyes implored. He examined her carefully.

"You want my children?" He sounded incredulous.

Her lips quivered into a smile.

"Why would I want anyone else's?"

He frowned down at her, brows knit and jaw tight. Impatient with their forced abstinence, he'd been trembling on the edge of a declaration for weeks, but hadn't been able to find the right words. Maybe he didn't need them. One of the first lessons he'd learnt as a spy had been to recognise an opening and jump in to fill it.

"The horridest children in the history of the universe and you want them?" he mocked.

One corner of his mouth tilted upwards and his fingers lifted to trace the line of her cheek and jaw, pushing up her chin to the exact correct angle.

"I suppose we'll learn to tolerate them," he answered for her.

It was several minutes before he spoke again. All his precautions and apprehensions about possible student interruptions forgotten, he concentrated on getting his message across with utmost thoroughness and she reciprocated with admirable enthusiasm.

"We could always ask Filch to babysit. I'm sure he'd love an excuse to bring out the thumbscrews," he said, once he was quite sure she understood.

She was giggling into the crook of his neck. He pushed her impossible hair out of his mouth and nose, one gentle hand holding it flat against her nape. Her hand moved up to run through his hair. The roots were even stickier than the lank, black strands she'd occasionally pushed away from his face.

"Uggh, what do you put in your hair, axle grease?"

His other arm wrapped more tightly around her as he stretched over to whisper in her ear.

"How long have you been waiting to ask me that?" he murmured.

"About ten years I think. Since the first time I walked into your classroom," she admitted, pressing closer.

"You were so eager to please me," he reminisced. It had been impossible then; now it was as easy as breathing. Easier - both of them were finding breathing quite difficult at this moment.

"And all you wanted to do was squash me," she reminded him. But not at all in the way he was squashing her now.

"Let's not wait any longer," he said. "The Ministry will be open at 9 a.m. tomorrow." Once they were married, they'd be able to seek privacy at the twist of a key in the door. There might still be interruptions, but the nights at least would be their own.

"But you still haven't even met my parents!"

She hadn't been able to set up a time that suited everyone. Her parents opened the surgery too early for breakfast to be an option and he'd always claimed on weekends to be too busy to leave the school-grounds. She'd suspected an excuse, but hadn't wanted to push something that didn't seem immediately urgent. Now though, she'd have to insist.

"Always easier to get forgiveness than permission," he urged.

"Severus, I can't. I promised mum I'd let them meet you first. How about we go over now and invite them to the wedding? We can still get married first thing."

His face darkened with doubt.

"They probably won't like me."

She twisted to look up into his eyes, a twinkle in her own.

"You faced Voldemort how many times and you're afraid of my parents?"

She realised her mistake at once, feeling his stiffening in his limbs even before she saw it in his face. She reached an apologetic hand to his cheek and rubbed gently across it, letting her forefinger drift lightly over his lips. He closed his eyes and breathed deep, then buried his head in her hair. Her arms slid around him again and she waited.

"I was afraid then too," he murmured at last.

Mingled regret and pride burned in her chest. As a child, she'd admired his strength and apparently fearless courage in repeatedly outfacing Voldemort. That had been illusory. Age had taught her to value instead his ability to show her his weakness, to admit his fear. For one more susceptible to humiliation and rejection than physical pain, that took far greater courage than concealment did.

"Of course you were," she exclaimed. "Who wouldn't be?"

The silence that followed was filled with the inarticulate reassurances and caresses he hadn't yet learnt to expect. That was all right. He'd have a lifetime to learn.

**A/N Just an epilogue to go. Sorry if you were holding out for more; the story's gotta stop where the story's gotta stop.**


	19. Epilogue

EPILOGUE

**This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling who, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and situations elaborated herein.**

**A/N: Spoilers. Thanks to all my reviewers who made this such an enriching experience.**

He wiped the smooth wet bottom, powdered deftly and did up the clean nappy, banishing the used one to the nappy bucket. Then he wrapped the screaming squirming bundle in a soft blanket and hoisted it to his shoulder for burping.

The same old words whispered softly – he was too hoarse to sing the child to sleep but a gentle even rhythm was more important than pitch or tune. Another ten minutes and he was able to place his snuffling burden down in a cot next to her older sister. He removed the soiled burping cloth from his shoulder and banished it likewise just as the front door opened.

Hermione was home. In moments she was with him, her shopping bags discarded in the lounge, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her head on his nape. He relaxed into her hold and sighed.

"How were they?" she asked, peering over his shoulder at two peaceful little faces, one framed in black curls the other in dirty blonde.

"You remember telling me that our children would be the horridest creatures in the history of the universe?"

"How could I forget with you reminding me every day?" She nestled closer.

"You were right as usual. Know-it-all." He turned in her arms and dropped a kiss on her hair before pulling her out of the room. He'd spent too long getting them to sleep to risk conversation waking them up.

"That bad? Never mind. Callie and Frank will be back in two days and we can hand them back. Then you'll be complaining you don't see enough of them."

"I still can't believe one of my daughters could be so lacking in judgement as to marry a Longbottom," he grumbled.

She chuckled knowing he got on very well with Neville these days, so well that he'd even recommended him as Sprout's replacement thirteen years ago.

"You've told me that every day for the last five years. But if the little ones inherit their potions ability from the wrong set of grandparents you'll just have to learn to keep your temper in the classroom. You don't want to be your granddaughters' boggart."

Not even the prospect of breaking the Gryffindor monopoly to become the first Slytherin headmaster since Phineas Nigellus had been able to drag him from his Potions classroom when Minerva and Amory retired last year. He'd stayed in the Deputy Head position and let the Ravenclaw Arithmancy professor leapfrog over him.

He made a grumpy noise in his throat as they walked to the kitchen. She put the kettle on and sat down next to him at the table.

"Anything else happen?" she smiled.

"Cammie floo-called from Salem. They've offered her a 5 year contract."

She sat very still. She'd been counting the days till her younger daughter returned.

"Will she take it?"

He scowled.

"She's not sure. She says she wants to discuss it with Janus first."

"Oh." So that was serious. Well there were worse boys than Minerva's grandson, even if he was a bit lightweight for her taste. And at least the international floo connection had finally been opened so they wouldn't be quite cut off from her.

"Anything else?"

"Your parents rang. They want us to take the children over tomorrow. And your mum's talking about a surprise party for your dad's eightieth," he grimaced.

The kettle boiled. She shook her head as he got up to pour the tea. He still hated partying crowds.

"I'd talk her out of it if I could," she offered, "but -"

"I know, I know," he sighed, "she's even more obstinate than you. I'll live."

He handed her a cup and sat down cradling his own between long pale fingers. He'd met his parents-in-law only a day before he married their daughter at the Ministry with Ginny and Neville and Minerva and Amory the only other witnesses. They'd been a little wary at first but before a year had passed Helen had been ordering him around as casually as if he were really her son.

"We've lived through much worse," Hermione reminded him

"Hmmm. Those times are almost like a dream now. Sometimes I wonder how I ended up like this – friends, family, everything I never expected to have."

She smiled.

"And?"

"Everything I've ever done has brought me here. I'd hate to live some of it over but if I had to," he gave a surprised snort at the realisation, "I wouldn't dare change a thing."

**A/N Most of the epilogue (and most of last chapter's "proposal") was written around Ch 4. It's great to finally reach it.**

**Out of several unfinished SSHGs I've chosen to next post "Post-mort" as the least likely to need major revision after HBP comes out. If you're waiting for "Betrayals" I'll update after HBP when I'll have had a chance to see whether it can remain canon-compliant or has to become an AU.**


	20. Bonus Insert

BONUS INSERT

**Disclaimer: This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling who created and, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and settings elaborated herein.**

**Thanks to my reviewers and especially to my previewers, Bellegeste and Cecelle. Here's a little bonus insert of my own for all those who weren't quite ready to let go of this story. Also, I've started a sequel, "Everything I've Ever Done: Reunion" (formerly ch 21), set when the Snapes'second child starts at Hogwarts.**

Helen Granger sighed as she picked up the "Xmas Bonus Crossword Insert" from the paper. She'd been hearing about it all week from Perry at breakfast, between mouthfuls of tropical fruit muesli with skim milk, but in the event it had kept his interest for less than an hour. Half of it was filled with those newfangled wordfinders and number puzzles that bored him and most of the rest were cryptics that he liked even less.

It was often so with these over-hyped bonus inserts and special offers; so much promise, so little delivered. She laid it down in case he wasn't finished with it and moved on to push in a chair that was slightly off-centre and straighten the already-straight table runner.

They'd been expecting a kind of bonus insert into their family for three months now. Her mouth quirked at the comparison of Hermione's - Boyfriend? Lover? Partner? – to a crossword collection. It seemed a very appropriate image, somehow; heaven knows there were likely to be enough cross words when they finally met! For seven years of his teaching, Hermione had had nothing but cross words from him, cross words and ugly glares. And now they were in love! Life was a puzzle sometimes.

What sort of parents gave their child a difficult-to-pronounce name like Severus, anyway? It had a harsh, unpleasant sound. Had they known how well it would suit him? Hermione's letters from Hogwarts had always described him as a teacher of the old-fashioned "Spare the sarcasm and spoil the child" persuasion; a cheerless friendless classroom tyrant. And yet, she'd had a kind of childhood admiration for him even then, which had swelled as his heroism in the war had been revealed.

But war-heroes didn't necessarily make good lov – husb – somethings. He must know it too, the way he'd been avoiding all Hermione's attempts to bring him here. Helen set very little store in his excuses of being too busy. He'd found time to court Hermione, hadn't he?

She sighed again as she picked up and replaced each Lladro ornament on the mantle-piece. Hermione had been quite vague about her holiday plans. All they knew was that she'd be spending most of her time with _him _and she'd probably join them in four days for Xmas dinner and Midnight Mass but not lunch the next day.

The doorbell made her jump and she made a little moue of distaste. Not another Bible-basher, she hoped, or worse, a choir of tone-deaf carollers collecting for who-knows-what. There always seemed to be some about at this time of year.

"Hermione?"

Though she'd been hoping to see her soon, her heart sank at the glow on her daughter's face. Please, let her only be happy at having finally dragged her tall, dark, unhandsome companion here! Oh dear! Lank hair, large nose, thin lips, and teeth quite as bad as Hermione had hinted. What did she see in him? She glanced down automatically to Hermione's left hand, mercifully ring-free, and managed a smile of welcome.

"You must be Severus. Do, please, come in."

Then he spoke and she looked again.

"Mrs Granger." A low, silky voice, a straight back and an elegant way of moving; not totally unattractive, if only his face would relax from its scowl. "I hope we don't disturb you?"

"Call me Helen," she invited with edged politeness, moving aside so they could come in. "It's delightful to make your acquaintance _at last_."

"I imagine you're no more delighted than I am," he responded in a tone so bland she couldn't be sure which way he meant it. "I trust I may also have the pleasure of meeting Mr Granger?"

"Perry's upstairs in the train room. Hermione may fetch him down for tea unless you'd rather go up and speak to him there?"

"I'll bring him down, mum. You know how hard it is to tell him anything when he's busy with his signal boxes and I do want him to hear this." Hermione's grin was too big for her face. "We're engaged!"

Helen's smile didn't falter.

"I can see that. For a moment when I opened the door, I thought you were going to tell me you were married."

"Ummm." Hermione cast an imploring glance at her fiance. He was unabashed.

"Very sharp, Helen." He produced her name with barely a hesitation. "Of course, I expected that from Hermione's parents. We're getting married tomorrow, at the Ministry. Would ten thirty be a convenient time for you?"

"I suppose you have a good reason for the short notice." She saw Hermione flinch, but it couldn't stop her. How dare this – this stranger come into her house and calmly tell her his plans to steal away her child! "Let me guess, you got engaged today."

"We did," the stranger agreed.

"You must be very sure. But then, you have known each other for ten years and at such close quarters too – teacher and student." Her eyes flashed. Severus didn't flinch.

"I'm sure Hermione could not have been more pleased than I when that stage of our acquaintance ended," he said.

"No one setting your clothes on fire any more." Hermione teased, herset look melting into mischief. She reached for his hand, entwining their fingers. For a moment, his arm trembled as if he was about to withdraw it, then his fingers tightened around hers. Spots of colour rose to his cheeks as he looked at their clasped hands.

"That and other exploits," he murmured.

Despite herself, Helen's smile warmed into sincerity. She knew in that instant that he was not a predator taking advantage of a young girl on the rebound, as she'd feared, but an intensely shy man ambushed by his own heart. Probably Hermione had done all the pursuing for both of them.

At the same time, her misgivings grew. The more layers of defences for Hermione to break through, the harder it would be to sustain a happy relationship. As mature as her daughter was in some ways, in matters of the heart she was a novice. One couldn't count Viktor; that had been more of a friendship than a courtship. Ricky had been her first serious boyfriend and that had lasted only a few months. This had apparently lasted less than a year. Was either of them ready for the hard slog of building a life together?

They were still standing in the hall, just inside the door. With a start, Helen remembered her manners.

"Go up and fetch your father, Hermione. Severus, will you join me in the kitchen and help with the tea since you're to be part of our family?" She needed to talk to him away from her daughter.

He gave her a narrow, sideways glance, then nodded and followed her.

"Thank you. What would you like me to do?" he asked.

Motioning him to a chair, she filled the kettle and set it to heat.

"Tell me about yourself, Severus. Have you any family?"

As she spoke, her hands were busy. Tea cups, teapot, spoons, sugar, milk and lemon. Unreadable black eyes followed her every move. One long finger traced around his lips as he considered.

"None that I know. I'm the last of my line on both sides. I've been teaching Potions at Hogwarts since I was twenty-one, most of that time as Head of Slytherin House and the last year and a half as Deputy Head."

"Do you like teaching?"

Sandwiches now, the thin crustless kind. Pity she hadn't done the Xmas shopping yet, but they'd closed the surgery for the holidays only this afternoon. She pulled margarine, cucumbers, Gentlemen's Relish and that half-tin of tuna from yesterday's lunch out of the fridge and a loaf from the breadbox.

"The day-to-day grind of forcing knowledge into empty heads can be tedious. Potions is an exacting field of study, requiring more attention than most children are willing to spare. It is – satisfying to watch the older students and to trace their eleven-year-old selves in their faces." He paused and whispered more to himself than to her, "To build instead of destroy."

She continued laying out the slices of bread as if she hadn't heard.

"It keeps you very busy, I suppose?" The kettle whistled as she spoke. She poured the water into the teapot and measured five spoons of Earl Grey, then returned to the sandwich-making.

"Very. I used to have a little time over the summer and as I grow more accustomed to the extra duties of being Deputy, no doubt I will again. The position requires me to live at Hogwarts the other ten months of the year, which means Hermione will have to move in to my quarters. Fortunately, they're large enough for two."

She bit her lip. That was something they hadn't prepared for, that Hermione would be living somewhere that Muggles like themselves couldn't visit, but it was no use protesting.

"And if you have children?" she probed. "I know it might seem premature to be asking, but I suppose you've discussed it?"

She began spreading the bread. Without asking, he stood up and walked to the cutting board, taking the cucumber in one capable hand and the sharp knife in another. She paused in her work to watch him cutting long, thin, angled slices. The knife flashed in a steady rhythm; in moments he was done.

"That doesn't arise yet," he said. "Hermione does want to enlarge our family, but not immediately."

"And you? You're not too busy bringing up other people's children to want your own?"

He brought the cutting board to her so she could begin laying out the slices. She smiled as their eyes met and his cheeks pinked again. Interesting, she thought. He was impervious to her sniping, but her friendliness shook his composure. Easy to tell what treatment he was used to. He'd probably always struggle with trusting people.

"We've talked about it," he admitted. "I'm not averse to the idea. A little girl, with Hermione's eyes and hair, perhaps."

"And if it's instead a little boy with yours? Or is that something you wizards can predict?"

"Neither Hermione nor I puts much store in Divination -"

"What are you asking him, mum?" Hermione complained, following her father into the kitchen at that moment. "You promised me you'd be nice."

Helen suppressed a pang. Children always sided against their parents after a certain age, but it hurt to see her daughter so protective and suspicious on his behalf. This was a rite of passage no less difficult for having been long expected. Their Hermione, who'd been growing away from them with ever-increasing rapidity ever since they'd reluctantly sent her away to the school and life she was born to, was theirs no longer.

"I'm always nice," she said, with more of a snap than she intended. "Perry, take Severus into the sitting room while we finish up here. Has she told you the good news?"

"You don't like him," Hermione said in a disappointed tone when the menfolk had obediently gone. "Give him a chance, mum -"

Helen took a deep breath and swallowed what she wanted to say about being given chances to like or dislike someone who would perforce be her son-in-law in less than twenty-four hours. It was always better to go easy over the rough spots of life. Pity she could tell that, whatever other sterling qualities Severus might have, that wasn't one of them.

"I don't dislike him," she said instead, slicing off the crusts and quartering the sandwiches into triangles. "Pour the tea, dear. I can see why you love him, I think. He won't be an easy man, but you know that. Of course we'll come to your wedding and wish you both very happy too."

She was rewarded with an emphatic kiss on the cheek. She hugged back, closing her eyes to savour the feeling of that slight warm body against hers.

"What's a Ministry wedding like?" she added. "And how will we get there? Can any of your friends take us?" It was such a nuisance that so much of the wizard world was inaccessible to unaccompanied non-magical folk.

"I'm not telling them yet. You see, Eloise and Zacharias just got engaged. Their party 's tomorrow night and we don't want to spoil it." Hermione didn't explain how it would "spoil" the party. She didn't need to. Her school letters had been full of how much her friends hated Severus Snape and Helen had forgotten none of it.

"Don't worry though. We thought about that already," Hermione continued. "I'll bring you with me and we'll meet up with Severus in the Ministry."

Tea in the sitting room was a little strained. There was too much to say and not enough time to say it. And one that two of them didn't know well enough to say it to.

Helen watched her daughter and prospective son over the rim of her teacup. She recognised the hesitancy in their stolen glances at each other, a build-up of tension that showed itself in touches and reaches arrested halfway, and was rather glad to know they'd be having a wedding-night in the most traditional sense of the word. The groom belonged to a generation old enough to remember the stigma of premarital sex, if not to share the disapproval.

Oh dear, she thought again. A generation older than Hermione, twenty years! How could this possibly work? He was barely younger than herself and Perry; how could he be marrying their child?

Severus didn't stay long. They let Hermione see him out and tried not to calculate how long she was gone and what sort of goodbye she might be giving.

"What do you think of him?" Helen demanded of her placid husband.

"It's lucky we're both dentists," he replied, determinedly cheerful. "With his teeth and her teeth to inherit, our grandchildren are certain to need our professional services."

"Oh dear!" she choked, and broke into slightly hysterical laughter. He put his arms around her and she turned wet eyes against his shoulder.

"Do you think, after they've been married a few years, that Hermione will let us talk to him about his teeth?" he muttered. "It sets mine on edge to look at a mouth like that."

It wasn't really the teeth that bothered them, but after twenty years of marriage that wasn't something either needed to explain to the other.

Next morning came far too soon. Almost before they knew it, they were watching Hermione hand over her wand to the Ministry security guard for weighing.

"Hermione?" asked a round-faced young wizard from behind them. "What are you doing here with your parents and – Oh!" His jaw dropped as they turned and he stepped back, his head jerking from side to side with a hunted look. He must have read their _Wedding Party _Ministry Visitor badges, thought Helen. His horror might almost be amusing if she didn't share something of the same feeling.

"You're not – are you? You and Snape? I mean – is he here?" he stammered.

"We're meeting him upstairs. What are you doing here, Neville? I didn't expect to see anyone today," Hermione blurted out.

Helen and Perry exchanged glances of recognition. Neville Longbottom? He seemed a pleasant friendly boy, but he, of all Hermione's circle, had a right and a reason to dislike her choice of groom. How many times had Hermione written them about her Potions-master's contempt for this student above almost all others, the classroomclot and constant butt of his sarcasm. They watched and waited, half-expecting him to tell her so.

"I'm here for Ginny. She had to pop in for half an hour to – I say, d'you mind if I fetch her? She'll never forgive either of us if she finds out you got married without her and I could have stopped you." He blushed and his words began to fall over themselves. "I mean, not that I want to stop you getting married, Hermione. I wouldn't dream of interfering like that, but -"

"You can meet us on Level One in five minutes," Hermione suggested helpfully.

Neville's eyes were still darting around.

"He won't mind, will he? I mean, I know I'm not his favourite person and I didn't get an invite or anything -"

"That's just because we don't want Ron to make a scene tonight at the engagement. And – well -" Her eyes dipped and her shoulders lifted as she shook her pink-cheeked head. "We didn't want to wait on everyone else's convenience."

She smiled sideways at him and he smiled forgivingly back. Her parents, unnoticed, let their breaths out in a sigh.

The groom was waiting outside the lifts at Level One and Helen was glad to see he'd washed his hair and dressed up for the occasion, even if he was still all in black. The long, sweeping lines suited him, but nothing could make him look young enough to be marrying a girl Hermione's age.

He was flanked by a grey-bearded wizard and a tartan-clad witch, whom the older Grangers recognised as the teacher who'd given them an introductory tour of Diagon Alley the summer before Hermione started at Hogwarts, Professor McGonagall. The other was introduced as Professor Amory Marchant.

Helen was too polite to wear any expression but a smile. Oh dear, were these his closest friends? They were even older than he was! How was Hermione ever to deal with them on equal terms? Beside her, Perry gave her hand a surreptitious squeeze. She squeezed back, wondering if Hermione and her stern soon-to-be spouse would ever reach that level of wordless understanding with each other.

Then the far lift door opened and Ginny Weasley shot out towards them, her unbound hair streaming behind like a tongue of flame. Neville followed more slowly.

"Hermione!" she scolded, hugging her friend. "How dare you try to sneak off and get married without any of us there! You haven't even invited Harry, have you? That's just ridiculous!"

"The engagement party – Ron -"

"Who cares about Ron?" said Ron's sister scornfully. "So he'll be a prat about it! What else is new?"

She pushed Hermione's cloak back to see her wedding dress. It was a luscious shade of cream, with bell sleeves, a scoop neck and a double-layered gauzy skirt falling from a high waist. Smiling, she fingered the soft material.

" At least you're dressed for the occasion. It's lovely! Where did you get it?"

"It's from my wedding," Helen cut in. "I never thought Hermione would be interested in it."

She'd thought it was too informal for Hermione's taste. Not that she hadn't felt like a princess in it, but she'd married in a garden, with half the guests barefoot and the other half wearing sandals and tatty jeans. Perry had been the only man in a shirt, a tie-dyed horror in startling shades of pink and red that she'd long since got rid of.

Ginny favoured her with a repentant grin.

"Sorry, I should have said hello and congratulations, Mrs Granger, Mr Granger, Professors." She cocked her head at the groom. "I hope you've no objections to our presence, Professor Snape?"

"It should be quite safe, Miss Weasley, Mr Longbottom." One corner of his mouth twisted up as he nodded past her at Neville. "I believe there are no cauldrons at the Registry." It was said, for once, without the slightest trace of sneer.

Neville gave him look for look, then stepped forward and, with slight hesitation, offered his hand.

"You know, sir, Hermione calls me Neville."

There was a micro-second's pause, which seemed to the watching eyes endless. Helen held her breath. How would he react to being treated as an equal by someone he'd always despised? Then a pale long-fingered hand took Neville's squarer rougher one in a firm grip.

"Spoken like a true Gryffindor." Thin lips curled and the witnesses wondered if that had been a compliment or not. It didn't seem likely and yet what else could it be? "She calls me Severus."

Smiles bloomed on all faces. Helen glanced at Perry, reading his thoughts in his mild eyes. Perhaps it would be all right, after all. The groom was certainly on his best behaviour for the ceremony. The only question was, would it last?

That they'd have to wait and see.

**A/N Canon doesn't tell us what's on Level One at the Ministry so that's where I located the Marriage Registry Office.**


End file.
